Lotus
by counterpunch
Summary: Three months after ‘Grave’. We encounter our heroes who stumble brokenly, desperate to find a new path and heal.
1. Tara Waits

** .: Lotus :.**

"Let us alone. What is it that will last?  
All things are taken from us, and become  
Portions and parcels of the dreadful Past. "  
:Alfred, Lord Tennyson:

Tara waited.

She idly picked at her knitting, pulling a few stitches through out of habit rather than anything else. She needed to keep her hands busy. She discovered early on that if she had something tiny and focused to do, her brain would quiet itself down for a few menial hours.

Which is how Tara came to be knitting in the first place. She had never aspired to make fragile sweaters, caps, or mittens for her various acquaintances until she was at least fifty-two and desperate for middle-aged activities to fill her spare moments. She expected to do those old lady deeds wrapped in blankets, being softly mocked by her beloved Willow, who was equally engrossed with the daily crossword sitting by her side.

A sigh escaped her lips.

Tara hated knitting.

Knitting meant she had to jump start that future for the sake of necessity, and there was nothing Tara disliked more than starting something too early. Especially without Willow. She mindlessly completed a row of the burgundy and cream scarf she had been knitting for what seemed like forever.

_Too long_, she thought.

1, 823, 069 stitches and she had come no closer to easing her aching heart than she had at stitch number 1.

_1,823, 070_. _Enough for now._

Tara placed the long train of fabric beside her on the bed, flexed her aching fingers, and sat up. Feeling the pressure in her bladder, she swung her legs to the side and put her bunny slippers on. Before she could stop it, as she stood mid-step to the bathroom, a memory swept her, powerful in its grasp.

"_See?" Willow urged happily, her hands busy fidgeting with an apparently fascinating tissue. "They're bunnies! For my snuggle bunny." _

_Tara's grin stretched across her face, slowly and with a hint of flush in her cheeks. _

_Rising to her feet, she took a few steps to meet her lover by the bureau. "Will, they're lovely," she said, gathering Willows hands in her own. "And they'll keep these frigid feet of mine toasty warm for you." _

"_Oooh, all ready for bedtime snuggles?" Willow bounced excitedly._

_Chuckling, Tara replied, "Yes, Willow. All ready for bedtime snuggles."_

_A devilish glint in her eyes, Willow's mouth turned up at the corner. "Good. 'Cause you know, there's nothing I like better than making sure you're all warm and toasty. Especially during bedtime snuggles". _

"_Oh really, Miss Rosenberg? And how were you planning on doing this exactly?" _

_The glint in Willow's eyes was all but snuffed out as her pupils dilated to hardened stones of un-mined emerald. Raw, consuming, and powerful. "Well, I had kinda planned to throw you down on that bed and have my way with you, if that's all right," Willow whispered. _

"_Oh, yes," Tara rasped as she felt strong arms wrap behind her thighs. Tara dropped her head to hover scant millimeters from Willows face. _

"_Ravish me, Willow," was the last thing Tara could say as she was soon swept up in the intense ocean of Willow's lips, waves crashing upon her consciousness, obliterating all possible thoughts from her mind. _

Tara gasped, thrusting her right arm suddenly on the doorway in order to balance herself. Assaulted by her memories, Tara didn't even realize that tears were slowly migrating down her cheeks, collecting in heavy beaded drops on her chin. It felt like a horse had kicked her in the chest, leaving Tara reeling, shell-shocked, and heart broken for at least the tenth time that day.

_Will it ever stop hurting this much? Being here without Willow?_ Tara thought, still slightly dazed.

Steeling herself, Tara made her way to the bathroom determined to prepare for bed without further disaster. Several minutes later, after brushing her teeth, relieving her bladder, flossing, and washing her face, Tara flicked the switch, bathing the bathroom in darkness. Placing her knitting on the bedside table, she turned on the lamp and made her way to the other side of Joyce's old room.

Tara shut off the lights and closed the door before shuffling wearily back to her side of the bed. Removing the extra pillows, she pulled a corner of the blanket down and settled herself under the covers. She picked up the picture frame on the table by her pillow and lovingly cradled it in her hands. She paused, staring at the figure that had haunted her for what seemed like forever. Tracing her fingers along Willow's face, she hesitated before taking a deep, shuddering breath. She put the picture back on the table.

_No, I suppose it won't, _she thought.

Before turning off the lamp, Tara turned on the radio, the alarm of humanity, like she did every night since, and waited with bated breath.

…..Nothing.

Not even the hiss of static or the rambling of car commercials could be heard. An abyss of sound pervaded the room, and Tara sighed. Again.

The room, now silent and dark, howled its emptiness back at Tara as she clutched the sheets to her chest and laid her head on her pillow, quietly succumbing to another night of restless sleep and broken nightmares.

_Willow…  
_


	2. Willow Wakes

"…Willow."

Willow jolted awake, her head jumping up from its resting place on the inside of her arm, elbow crooked beneath her head on the table. Willows eyes were unfocused and panicky, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she panted, still hearing echoing screams from the chasms of her dreams.

Sliding into the chair next to her at a table and room not unlike the research area at the Magic Box, Ms. Harkness slowly began rubbing Willows back. She had gotten used to waking Willow with a soft hand. But no matter how gently she was woken, Willow would always wake with a start. There would be several flustered moments before awareness would settle and Willow would realize where she was.

"Willow, you've been asleep for hours. Aren't you the least bit sore on that table, dear?" Ms. Harkness posed quietly in a sweet British tongue, her arm making tender circles on the middle of Willow's back.

Taking several slow deep breaths to settle herself, Willow blinked and turned her head.

"Why do you keep doing that?" she asked softly, a slight frown on her face and a crinkle between her brows.

Smiling gently, Ms. Harkness could still not get over the onus this small woman felt she carried.

_The time for guilt is over, Willow. _

"Do what, dear. It's nothing that I haven't done dozens of times now."

Sure in her convictions, Willow knew more than anything the kindness this woman was showing her was wrong. A murderer like her didn't deserve being woken tenderly. A torturer like her wasn't entitled to warm biscuits and jam in the morning. Malicious and destructive villains like her don't warrant clemency. The Big Bad doesn't get a break. It went against every Scooby bone in Willow's body. And she knew it.

"That doesn't make it better. I don't deserve this. Any of this."

Before she would let herself soften and melt in tears of Tara and sobs of 'sorries', Willow pushed her chair back and stood. Looking to the floor, she hid her eyes. Taking a few small steps, she turned and let out a quiet "Please excuse me," before closing the door to her room behind her.

Ms. Harkness sighed and turned to look as the latch to the door slid quietly into place with a small _click_.

"You're right, Willow, " she said sadly, shaking her head. "You don't."


	3. Midnight Snack

"Don't."

Buffy's eyes hardened and she squinted at her foe. Circling slowly, but with superior awareness, she quickly checked the exits to make sure the being in front of her couldn't escape.

"Make me."

Appalled, Buffy screwed her face up and spat, "Dawn, if you think for one second I'm gonna let you get away with this, you've got another thing coming to you."

Not relinquishing her hold on the box of Oreos, Dawn slid slyly closer to the doorway. "Oh yeah? What are you gonna do, slay me? Sure makes the whole jumping off a tower thing kind of redundant, don't you think?"

"That cookie is **mine** and you know it. It's my post-slayage treat. A Scooby snack for the Scooby! And...and…I even put a post-it on the box, see?" Buffy tried desperately.

Turning the box over, seeing 'Last cookie dibs' with a little stake drawn on the sticky note, Dawn relented. "Fine. But you know this means I get the whole next box to myself?"

Happy that the standstill was over, Buffy yanked the coveted treat and shoved it in her mouth. "What, so you can mix it with Tabasco sauce and marshmallow fluff and call it icing? I think not."

"Ugh, fine. Ignore fine, creative dining. Whatever." Dawn rolled her eyes. "I'm going upstairs, you coming?"

"Yes ma'am. Just give me two shakes of a lamb's tail. I'm going to do another sweep."

Dawn pondered the conundrum as she began climbing the stairs. "Huh. Why do they say that anyway? Lambs don't shake their tails twice. Do lambs even shake their tails once?" Turning around to see if Buffy had an answer, Dawn was puzzled to see her sister nowhere in sight.

"Buffy?"

Shrugging, she turned and continued up to her room.


	4. Full Moon

The night was still, heavy with a hint of humidity, thick like a blanket. The rain from the day before soaked into the streets and shimmered underneath the streetlamps. Buffy circled the Summers' house for the third time that night. One part guilt and one part determination, Buffy continued to stubbornly patrol long after any threat had reared its bumpy face.

Buffy had promised that nothing would ever happen to Dawn as long as she lived. But she had failed. Hadn't she learned? Hadn't she seen what damage a selfish Slayer could do?

_And I thought I was different than Faith._

The saintly and superior attitude she had clung to when she had come back had blinded her irreparably. And so she had failed in so many ways. The Slayer failed to protect Tara, the beloved innocent who made pancakes and juice in the morning. The sister failed to safeguard her family who had suffered enough that year. And the friend had failed horribly. Useless and aloof, Buffy was unable to save and defend the people who had selflessly upheld a vigil of support for her and her duty, adopting it as their own.

And thus wrapped up in her thoughts, she sheathed Mr. Pointy. Satisfied with her sweep of the house, Buffy walked back up the front porch. Letting her eyes scan the front yard once more, she reached one hand to the doorknob and hesitated. Twisting around, she stared at the moon for a long moment.

Round and full, the moon shone foggy, caught behind a light mist of clouds. The moon had meant so much before. Cycles of cages, wolves, and magic had occupied the past. Now the only thing that seemed to orbit the Summers' house was pain, blood, and death.

_I'm so sorry_.

Turning her back on the heavens, Buffy entered the house and shut the door on the moon.


	5. The Slider

"_I put on that sweater you gave me  
I woke up in the kitchen a few minutes later  
I didn't know how I had gotten there  
Did you guide me?  
I didn't make it to your funeral  
I didn't want ritual or resign  
So lost I was asleep in the palms of your hand  
In dreams we were happy and safe  
I can't comprehend the ways I miss you  
They come to light in my mistakes  
In my mistakes  
In my mistakes"  
:Neko Case, __South Tacoma Way_:

"The stars burn. You can't quite touch 'em, can you? They burn, burn, burn. Tiny little holes right through Spikey."

The peroxide vampire made his way through the alleyway. Drunkenly stumbling around trashcans toppled like boxes, Spike muttered to himself; his own crazy voice more soothing than the reviling buzz of victims tearing through his head.

"Time, time, running out of time. Have to get back home. Quick like a bird."

He paused, sensing something was wrong. Subtle, like changing a recipe by adding extra salt. The air reeked of dark changes. Unnatural and erratic. Alarmed, Spike braced himself for danger.

"I hear you, you know. Your skittering little legs. Didn't think I could, did you?"

There- in the corner behind the dumpster- a buzzing.

At first a low hum, Spike's eyes narrowed and he grabbed a nearby bent golf club, sticking out of a soggy cardboard box like a spider leg, and slowly stalked towards the noise. The humming grew louder and morphed into a cacophonous swarm of bees.

Swatting the air around him, Spike crouched ready, club swung behind him like a baseball bat. Slow steps brought him closer to the dumpster. As the buzzing grew, so did his nervousness.

Swallowing loudly, he whispered "Bring it on, luv."

As the last word left his lips, the buzz exploded in a brilliant nebula. Spike lifted his arm to try and shield his eyes as a thousand luminous shards pierced his flesh. A barbaric and ferocious cry tore through Spike's throat as the light engulfed him completely.

As quick as it began, the glowing and buzzing reversed its explosion like rewinding a videotape. Mutely it ceased, snuffed out like a candle flame. The alleyway remained as it had before, save the screams reverberating and echoing throughout the dark.


	6. The Implosion

"Tara!"

Like a bolt of lightning, Willow shot up in her bed drenched in the warm sticky sweat of nightmares clinging to her flesh.

Pupils dilated, it took her a moment to realize where she was. Her flesh crawled from the bloodied and agonizing visions of her dreams.

_England. I'm in England._

_But, I felt her. Here, but…not here._

Trying to shake the cocoon of Tara that encased her every time she woke, Willow tried to relax her tense body by following the now mustily familiar landscape of her room at the coven.

A small hum echoed in the back of her sleep-fogged mind, and Willow blinked.

"_Willow, this is your room. You'll be expected to arrive at all meals, but otherwise you are free to stay and wander as you wish. Elyse will come and check on you every hour to see if there's anything you…require. All right?"_

_Recognizing the subtle aftertaste in Ms. Harkness' speech, Willow slowly nodded, if only to get the woman in front of her to stop talking and leave. _

"_Good! Then we'll see you shortly for some supper. Enjoy." With a kind smile, Ms. Harkness turned and walked away, her short heels scattering on the wooden floor like beetles._

_Left standing on the threshold of her room, Willow forced herself to open the door. She stared emptily at the living quarters in front of her. _

_Aloofly perplexed, she slowly explored her new arrangements. Dust particles shimmered in the light that poured in from the large windows opposite the bed. _

_She trailed her fingers lightly over the old lacy pillows, the thick frilly beige blanket, and her thin suitcase resting flat on the edge of the bed. _

_There was a light bouquet of flowers in a small vase on the little table near the pillows. She went to her suitcase and unzipped the small section on the front and pulled out a single picture frame. Sitting down on the cushioned surface of the bed, Willow stared longingly at the photograph in front of her. _

_Taken the Thanksgiving before Joyce's death, Xander had snapped a picture of Tara and Willow snuggled up together on the couch. Willow had seen him out of the corner of her eye and was about to tell him off, but Tara…darling Tara hadn't even noticed. Staring adoringly at Willow above her, a smug smile of contentment and happiness shone on Tara's face. _

_Willow traced Tara's grin. _

_Placing the frame next to the flowers, she stood and began unpacking. Refolding everything before she placed them into drawers, Willow mindlessly organized her life into five 2 x 3 sized spaces. _

_Paying direct attention for the first time to the large wardrobe next to the bureau, Willow stood. After a moment of hesitation, she opened the doors wide with both arms. _

_Taking off both her shoes before stepping boldly into the closet, Willow closed both doors firmly behind her, steeped her breathing, and concentrated. Drenched in darkness, brows furrowed, lips tight, and hands clenched, Willow turned to face the back wall and lifted one arm warily. Sifting through several old coats, she held her breath and reached out shakingly. _

_It seemed like forever that her hand crept forward. On and on she moved until suddenly, her fingers touched the back of the wardrobe. Willow grimaced as the rough and gritty grains of the wood mocked her light touch. _

…_But there was no magic. Not for a witch__in a wardrobe in England, not for a bartender on the white beaches of San Juan, not for a peddler in the streets of Bangkok, and especially not for anyone in the town of Sunnydale. Not anywhere. The world was just as it had always been: dry, scabbed, and cruel. _

_Willow had somehow forgotten this, having had buried a tiny part of herself deep. Long before Buffy had come along and whisked her off her feet with danger and purpose, before Cordelia and her cronies had taunted and belittled her into spackled wallpaper, and even before Billy had put those frogs in her lunchbox, Willow had protected herself._

_Submerged beneath the companionship of two young boys, a tiny Willow had hidden the white and shining beauty of her innocent heart away. She knew she would need to keep it safe. In order to lose oneself in books and forts and neglect, one had to take the necessary precautions. The lessons of C.S. Lewis, Roald Dahl, E.B. White, and Tolkien among others had taught her that. She had learned well. _

_And there it had stayed, already shrink-wrapped and refrigerated for the time the Slayer would come with her friendship and bumps in the night._

_At the cold hard touch of the back of the wardrobe, this part of Willow exploded and let loose every moment of pain and anguish in her young life simultaneously. In flashes, her life decomposed. _

…_a constant key under the doormat_

…_a skinned knee and sneering faces on the blacktop _

…_crinkled toilet paper and used wrappers in her locker_

…_a twenty-dollar bill and a ten-word note taped to the fridge _

…_two helpless puncture marks in the side of Jesse's neck_

…_the dark dismal realization of Moloch's deception_

…_dead fish on a string in the solitude of her bedroom_

…_the cold steel of betrayal twisting deep at the sight of two naked bodies tangled together underground_

…_the bitter frustration of Buffy's blind obliviousness and preoccupations when she needed her most_

…_a warm bench and a blue-eyed blank gaze at the fair ten seconds too late_

…_Buffy's serene body atop rubble and dust_

…_screams in the night_

…_the slinking fear of argument_

…_brittle herbs _

…_delicate words_

…_red sheets_

…_red shirts_

…_splotches of red_

…_red_

…_red_

_All Willow could see was warm, sticky red. And in that, something broke. _

_It was terrible and colossal. The floods of Noah were nothing compared to the torrential downpour that ravished Willow. _

_Sinking brutally to the floor of the wardrobe, a lifetime of empty wasted endless days stared Willow in the face. For the first time since the funeral, Willow cried. Giving in to the abyss that claimed her, a low cry began deep in her bowels. Scratching its way through her lungs and throat, its claws erupted with a terrible and mighty ferocity._

__

Shaking, wailing, and hacking sobs on the floor of the wardrobe, somewhere Willow wondered how the tears could feel so hot when her chest felt so cold. Her pulse pounded in her ears as fire poured forth from her eyes and trailed down her face but hissed and evaporated when it ran blindly into the collapsing icy caverns of her breast.

_And this was how Ms. Harkness found her charge hours later, throat raw, eyes vacant and unfocused, mouth trembling, with a never-ending barrage of tears streaming down her face. _

_An hour late for dinner, Ms. Harkness crept into Willow's room, scooped her up and rocked her slowly on the floor whispering chants of 'hush' and crooning old English songs from her childhood. _

_Hair being stroked softly, Willow brokenly succumbed to sleep for the first time since the bluff with the murmuring of gentle words in her ear._

With a flourish of bed sheets, Willow got up before she could easily persuade herself not to. After throwing some clothes on and washing up, she emerged from her room to be welcomed by a plate of still steaming biscuits, berries, cheese, and juice left on the table. Despite her best wishes, a tiny smile graced her lips, cheeks stretching unused to the action. The smile did not reach her eyes, as another useless day loomed ahead of her: tedious and barren.

_All right, then. First breakfast, then Giles._


	7. Buoys

Tired and weary of browsing through volumes of dry texts, Giles removed his glasses and massaged his eyes with the backs of his hands. Even after the dull weary itch had faded, he continued to rub his eyes as if he could scrub it all away.

Before he could dwell on his unhappiness, a rapt knock on the door drew him forth from his thoughts.

"Yes? Oh, Ms. Harkness, please do come in."

Closing the door behind her, Ms. Harkness surveyed the cluttered desk and let out a soft chuckle. "Research, Mr. Giles? I wasn't aware of an advancing apocalypse. Is something new and shockingly evil afoot?"

His eyes crinkling, Giles smiled. She always knew how to barge into a room like an irritatingly welcome friend and make him smile amidst danger, worry, and responsibility.

"No, unfortunately not. Nothing we don't already know, at least. Actually, things have been surprisingly static as of late. I'm beginning to worry. It's not…natural for the forces of evil to be so quiet before-"

"the shit hits the fan?"

"YES!" he shouted as he pounded the table with his fist. After a rigid moment, his shoulders slumped and Giles looked at her despondently. The anger, evaporating like the morning mist, fled from his voice and he spoke. "Yes. And quite frankly I don't know what to do, Marissa."

Recognizing the slow sticky dread of helplessness in Giles' eyes, Ms. Harkness gently nudged Giles' chin so he met her gaze. Searching his pleading brown eyes, she beckoned him to stand, wrapped her arms around as far as she could reach, and held him tight.

_He's just a lost little boy, _she thought sadly.

They swayed silently for a few moments, two little buoys adrift in a wide, dark, and tumbling sea.

Breaking the comfortable silence, Ms. Harkness pulled back to look at Giles. "Rupert. She's not making any improvements."

Meeting her gaze, Giles stared deep into her eyes and calmly replied, "Yes, I know."

"Good. Then I think you realize we've done all we can for her here."

Seeing him opening his mouth, preparing to interrupt, she placed a finger over his mouth and continued. "Rupert. It's been months. She came to us broken. She's still in pieces, but….she's stubbornly resigned herself to live. And I doubt she's even realized it, but she has. In fact, she'd probably deny her own will. I daresay she's stronger than she gives herself credit for."

Shaking his head, Giles agreed. "Oh, I have no doubts that Willow gotten remarkably better. But it's _only_ been a few months, do you really think she's ready to go back to Sunnydale?"

"My dear Giles. She's going to have to go back eventually. And she'll never be _ready_. What person would ever be _ready_ to go back to the place where they died inside? No."

She took a deep breath. "But she is needed. There will be a great battle fought on the Hellmouth soon as you well know, and your Slayer will need all the help she can get. Willow must go back. It won't be easy, but there's nothing more we can do to help her. The rest is up to her. And her friends. And you." She finished, looking up at him with a smile in her eyes.

Smiling back, after a moment Giles said, "She thinks you're afraid of her."

Chuckling softly, Ms. Harkness replied "Oh don't be ridiculous. I couldn't be more afraid of her than Tupperware. Now, come. Let's go to her, shall we?"


	8. The Arrival

Pain.

That's all that he could remember. There was no room in his brain for anything else, all possible thoughts scattered like ants by new waves of torment.

Blinding flashing pain besieged him and tore through his flesh. His mouth opened and closed, a fish gasping for air, but no sound escaped. He was trapped in a bubble of anguish.

It seemed endless, stretching on into infinity, pulling him like Silly Puddy to the far corners of wherever he was.

He thought it was pain at first, what else could it have been? But for a moment - a miracle moment - his back stopped spasming. Primal body functions kicked in and relishing the respite from agony, his spine relaxed into a gentle natural arc.

It seemed that the moment his back relaxed, the rest of his body followed, each muscle softening slowly like refrigerated butter. It seemed to take forever, but the agony and sound eventually melted until he was just Spike, with elated tears of thanksgiving leaking from his eyes.

Limbs sprawled out, he lay panting heavily on the ground, praising whatever Gods above for the solid terrain he could grasp.

Grateful for his newfound freedom, he was nonetheless aware of his vulnerable state. Desperate for survival now more than ever, he forced himself to his knees and scrutinized his surroundings. Bracing his aching arms on his thighs, he opened his eyes and froze.

Trashcans littered the damp alley. A dumpster lay dormant against the far wall. And a bent golf club stuck out like a spider leg from a dank cardboard box.

It was the exact same alleyway he had come from.

Except it was daylight.

Spike ever so slowly raised his gaze towards the sky.

…And didn't burn.


	9. The Rose

"Hello?" Xander asked as they walked. "Earth to the Buffster. You in there?"

Realizing that someone was talking to her, a sudden "Huh?" blurted out of her mouth.

"Well that was enigmatic. Maybe a little overacted, but with just a bit more 'oomph', I think you've got some definite Broadway material there."

Glancing over to him at her right, she apologized. "Sorry Xander. I guess I zonked out again?"

"Yeah sure. Either that or your excitement is just pouring out your ears in all new fun ways. Everything alright in there?"

They turned the corner passing the tail end of town and started up the long sloping hill. Kids blurred by on roller blades and bicycles as they walked, the sunshine warming their backs like a slow, cozy winter fire.

Picking at the loud, crinkling plastic wrapping in her hands, Buffy shuffled on, noticing the grass peeking through the cracks in the sidewalk; stubborn little weeds. "Yeah, I was just out a little later than usual last night, checking things out. You know, no biggie."

Xander recognized that tinge of the sluggish self-hatred Buffy carried. He knew it because he was just as stuck in the quicksand of regret as her.

There was nothing that haunted him more in his life – not seeing his best friend ashen and unconscious laying bruised and battered on a hospital bed, not staring at the pavement alone and benumbed on Christmas eves, and not even the stricken realization of betrayal in Anya's brimming eyes as she stood emptily on the alter – than the moment Xander Harris, champion of Scooby blind daring and courage, stood motionless in that sunny backyard on the worst day of his life.

But what could he possibly say? No words would make his sticky feet move those months ago, and nothing he could say now would distill the hanging cloud that smoldered above them. It was a deeply ingrained Scooby habit to save the heavy emotional drain for apocalypses and demons rather than on conversation. It took precious resources to keep up fighting the forces of darkness, let alone the effort of trying to live in the light.

Squinting against the sun, he swept the unspoken conversation away with a silent agreement, "Yeah, no big."

Buffy was grateful for Xander's willingness to sacrifice the topic. She just didn't feel like getting into it. Not today.

They kept walking, stuck in a comfortable silence, each wrapped in their own tiny pockets of grief. The sign for the cemetery snuck up on them as it always did, taciturn and massive.

_Buffy hated the sunlight that day. It mocked her relentlessly as her friend lay cold in the ground. Buffy hunted the dark and the evil, but she could do nothing to chase away the shadows that hung under Dawn's eyes or the scars that lingered on Xander's face; more potent and obvious in the sunshine than they had been the night before. _

_Buffy squeezed her sister closer to her._

_She glanced over at Willow, who had mutely insisted she dress herself that morning, as she sat in the only chair with her hands clasped tight, knuckles shining whitely and trembling in her lap. A constant stream of tears trickled down Willow's face as she looked ahead blankly, lost and irretrievable. Buffy wondered if she'd ever see her best friend again. _

It wasn't often a fallen or dearly departed Scooby member had a remnant of them left in Sunnydale. Most drifted away like dust to Angel in L.A. or were possessed in the dark by demons. It was almost a morbid rare treat to be able to visit a grave.

Again, Buffy was slightly startled when they stopped walking, having arrived at their destination, and Xander spoke softly. "You know, I didn't think it would be this hard."

Nodding solemnly, she said, "I know. Me either."

Xander reached to pick up the old bouquet of brilliantly mixed zinnias, petals browning slightly at the tips like burnt paper edges, that rested against the tombstone. "She still doesn't talk to me, but I know her like the back of my hand. These are hers."

"Anya?"

He bowed his head in affirmation and with a forced chuckle said, "She probably did research on appropriate graveside manner."

Buffy gestured down at the mixture of flowers in her hand, "Well, these aren't exactly a dime a dozen at the grocery store, either."

He shrugged. "Well, what's the few extra bucks? We made a promise, Buff, and an elephant never forgets. Or shirks his duty. Or, you know…isn't an elephant."

Xander faithfully went to the floral shop in town every Monday and Friday to tenderly collect a mixture of ferns, phlox, irises, and orange blossoms. It had been the only thing Willow asked of him before she left. Somewhere he knew, best friend deep, that Willow didn't think she would ever be coming back.

He upheld her wish, but always added a single dark crimson rose just for her. It just felt right to him.

Cradling the old zinnias in his arms, Xander replaced them with the fresh bouquet as he sat down in the grass cross-legged beside Buffy.

She stared at him for a long moment.

Then, taking a deep breath, Buffy began.

"Hey, Tara."


	10. Shopping List

Accidentally knocking the pots to the floor with a clatter, Tara cursed loudly as she burnt her fingers on the stove.

"Shit!" she hissed, and shoved the throbbing digits between her legs and clamped her thighs together.

The morning light shone in through the window over the sink in the Summer's kitchen, soft like a lullaby, as Tara tried to prepare breakfast.

Ella Fitzgerald kept Tara company every morning, rain or shine, happy or sad, empty or full, pancakes or cereal, ready or not. It chased the silence away, if only for a little while, and jazz was something Tara clung to. Like the last remnants of a tube of toothpaste, Tara squeezed up the only inheritance she had, furrowed deep in her heart.

Mornings at home with Mom had been such a rare delight and Tara treasured them more than anything. Her father and Donnie always left early to work the farm, so Tara was left alone with her mother for a few precious hours. The house would sing with happiness, smug and full of cookies and magic.

Her mother would hoist her on a stool and hold her protectively from behind like a mama bear at the kitchen counter. She would sing with the radio under her breath, and it tickled the backs of Tara's ears. Lady Ella serenaded them warmly and flowers danced on the windowsill as they wove recipes into blankets of solace that Tara would wrap around herself during the long dark nights under lock and key.

Flour, jazz, honeysuckle, and daffodils would stick to the underside of Tara's heart when Father worked a dark magic all his own. Try as he might, however, nothing was more powerful than those happy mornings bathed in light and love.

Trying to shake the icy burning that licked the tips of her fingers and heart, Tara shook her head and went to the sink to wash.

"_Morning, you, Tara heard in her ear as a soft body molded into hers from behind. "Funny shapes today?"_

_Tara smiled, feeling Willow's grin ripen in the crook of her neck. '__**How is it she fits me so perfect?'**_

The glass she was cleaning slipped from a lax grip and shattered into tiny fragments along with Tara's carefully conceived morning procedure.

Jerked out of her thoughts, as her back echoed a phantom Willow-warmth, Tara realized it wasn't enough this morning. She had grown too comfortable with the routine. Her brain had relaxed in habit and her heart was beginning to think.

It was too much.

Barely remembering to turn off the stove, Tara left the kitchen in a flurry, crunching over the broken glass, and hurried to the front door.

She needed to get out. The house was oppressive and caved in on her slowly with faulty routines, patterns, and habits designed to keep her calm. Tara barely had time to realize she was panicking; it struck dart fast, unseen until it hit. Her breathing labored and spots danced behind her eyes as she leaned heavily against the banister.

She just needed to get to the door.

With a lasting burst of desperate strength, Tara leapt towards the door and grabbed the doorknob as she fell.

Fresh air flew through the air as the door swung open. It blew the crazy and the panic out of Tara like sifting sand in the wind as she lay collapsed in the doorway with one arm hanging off the threshold.

The hysteria fled after a few moments as a lazy breeze gently blew Tara's sweaty hair into the draft. Her mind cleared slowly, defogging like a mirror after a steaming shower, and her breathing returned to normal as she listened to her heart calming.

_Thump-thump. Thump- thump. Thump – thump._

_Taraheart,_ she thought as her eyes brimmed with a fresh wave of tears and her throat thickened and swelled.

_No. I will not do this here._ _Now now. _Tara forced the tears and sobs down with a deep swallow.

She knew no one was watching, but Tara felt self-conscious sprawled out like a lunatic in the doorway of the house. Stranger things had happened in the Summers' home, she knew, but not in this place.

Tara stood and brushed her hands off on her pants, staring forlornly at the long expanse of the lawn in front of her.

_I need more eggs._

She needed to collect herself before going out again. Too unnerved to do the shopping now, Tara hugged her arms, rubbing her shoulders in cold comfort, and turned to go back inside.

The door shut firmly behind her.


	11. The Poet

Nothing had been worse than those first few hours.

Was it a nightmare? Spike didn't even know. He thought he had just gone crazier, if it were possible. It had been months since he had retained any sense of lucidity for longer than a few minutes, so how could he tell? The hissing voices of his past victims surrounded his every thought and stirred up a dust cloud of raucous torment that led to constant headaches.

But no_. That wasn't even the worst of it, was it, Spikey boy?_

His heart. Oh, how his _heart_ had ached. It rotted inside him with a dull throb, blackness and evil oozing from ventricles and arteries like sewage. He could feel it poisoning him slowly. It seeped into his soul, laying waste to whatever virtue and goodness lay within.

_That_ was why he had tried to cut it out. _That_ was why it burned. After all his hard work, his soul was being ravished, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

But here….here it had all stopped. The discordant buzz in his brain hadn't reared its nasty head. A giant mute button had encapsulated Spike's mind. It confused him at first, but then sunk to a deep dread. Could it have gone? If the voices had fled, had his soul gone with them? It was just so _quiet._

The noise had been there for so long that Spike thought he had lost his hearing. Which was why Sunnydale hadn't seemed so odd at first. But then, slowly, ordinary sounds seeped into his ears. He heard the leaves rattle in the breeze and a scattered chippering of birds, but nothing more.

Which begged the question: Where was he really? Spike wasn't even sure anymore.

After staring blankly into the sun for a moment, Spike had blinked and scrambled into the shade out of dark habit. Safe behind a veil of shadow, he then tentatively thrust his hand into the sun and snapped it back. Satisfied that his hand didn't sizzle and pop like frying bacon, Spike let out the breath he didn't realize he had been holding.

Experiment completed. It was time to go exploring.

Slinking out of the alleyway, Spike was taken aback as he scouted.

It looked like Sunnydale but didn't sound like Sunnydale, for there were no human fingerprints to be found. No screeching traffic of cars, no indistinct smattering of voices, no music parading from a restaurant window, and no patterns of life in the air.

It felt like Sunnydale, but didn't smell like Sunnydale. It couldn't have been.

There wasn't a scent of warm blood anywhere.

Something was wrong. Deadly wrong. Determined that the simmering sauté of anxiety wouldn't get the best of him, with a snarl Spike headed to the only place he ever expected to find answers.

_Slayer…_


	12. The Vice

With a _whoosh, _the automatic doors opened and blasted an air-conditioned gust onto sweaty skin, creating the pleasant cooling sticky sensation that only summer can bring.

Rubbing her arms in a vain attempt to chase the growing goose bumps from her flesh, Dawn grabbed a shopping cart and started meandering towards the supplies.

Anya accompanied her, looking skeptically at the products in front of her, as if suspecting they were all incompetent. "So." she said, "Have you given any more thought to my spectacularly-prepared suggestions?"

Dawn rolled her eyes, "Anya, you've cut out every single coupon from the newspapers and magazines for the last month and flagged the best deals with hi-lighters and post-its." Scrunching up her face, she added as an afterthought, "And it's barely even September."

Seeming quite pleased with herself, Anya started parading down the aisles, admiring the colorfully-labeled rollback prices along the way.

"Well, you can never be too prepared. Careful and well-researched purchasing is the cornerstone of American capitalism. You don't want to jump in all willy-nilly into the market, do you?"

Despite knowing it was best to ignore any discussion about free enterprise with Anya, Dawn stubbornly refused to give in to her quips. "I'm not jumping into anything. It's just back-to-school sales. They're the same every year. Chill."

All prior happy feelings of consumerism gone, Anya huffed, "Everyone keeps telling me that, but I don't understand."

Slightly confused, Dawn asked, "What, back-to-school sales?"

Waving Dawn's question away with a flick of her wrist, Anya continued, "Chill. You use the word so casually but do you have any idea what it's like trying to pretend everything is perfectly normal all the time? I can't _chill_."

Awareness crept upon Dawn as she recognized the simmering anger behind Anya's voice. It was a bitter frustration that pressed upon the chest like a slowly turning vice. The hurt it left behind in its destructive grip left nothing sacred. She knew because it had ensnared them all.

Anya continued, the pent-up rage within her pouring out into the helpless aisles of Target. "Things just keep getting worse for you humans, how can you stand it? I'm…riddled with these unpleasant feelings and memories and I can't do anything about it! I visit Tara twice a week, and I don't understand why it still doesn't _feel_ any better."

It kept spilling out, unbidden and unending, and it was all Dawn could do to stand and watch helplessly with somber understanding.

"This ache isn't going away and none of you will talk about it! My god, don't you ever tire of bottling everything up?"

The tension was palpable. It wore thin on restraint and stoicism by testing even the furthest limits of Scooby self-control. It cracked them slowly. Differently. They were each caught in the deepest muck and drowning slowly. This time, no one was coming to rescue them.

_How did we get so lost?_

Willow was gone, nursing and rehabilitating in England with Giles, and Dawn didn't know if she was ever coming back. Even if she made it back to Sunnydale, Willow would never really come back. Not without Tara.

Buffy, on the other hand, was so laden with guilt, it was a miracle she was still standing. Dawn could see it press on Buffy's shoulders in the morning when she didn't think Dawn was watching. How could she have missed it before? Blinded by admiration and sisterly jealousy, Dawn had mistaken the sad and lonely burden of the Slayer for glory and celebrity. She was glad, now, to have escaped that fate. She could grow and be loved and have a life all her own, safe from destiny and circumstance.

Anya and Xander….well, they danced so finely around each other, Dawn wasn't sure where they stood. Hell, Anya and Xander weren't even sure. Tangled in the past, they simply couldn't figure out how to unravel and just forgive themselves. And each other.

And Tara…..Tara was dead. There would be no more milkshakes and movies, no more morning couch cuddles or pancakes. A great warmth was gone and Dawn had never felt so utterly alone.

It was all so wrong. For such a long time nothing felt right, and Dawn was starting to get scared. Was this all her fault?

_It is, isn't it? _

It started with Glory.

But no….

…It had all started with her. No Key, no Glory. It was that simple. She could see the consequences of her existence topple like falling dominoes.

_Oh God._

It was impossible, this hurt. It hammered and pounded and made her head swim.

"Anya," Dawn choked, clutching her chest.

Snapped out of her reverie, Anya turned with apologetic eyes towards Dawn, who was leaning forcefully on an aisle.

"Anya. I know," Dawn exhaled heavily, a plea in her eyes and understanding in her breath. A silent request lingered in her gaze - to escape the heavy phosphorescent lights and the clammy air-conditioning. She wanted to go home.

Feeling foolish for her random explosion, Anya gently put an arm around Dawn's shoulders and without another word, they abandoned the shopping cart and exited the store, fading into the summer wash of customers and cars.


	13. This Woman's Work

_Woke up and wished that I was dead  
With an aching in my head  
I lay motionless in bed  
I thought of you and where you'd gone  
and let the world spin madly on  
:The Weepies-__World Spins Madly On_:

The quiet suited her.

It soothed and whirled in the wind as it caressed her, gently blowing wild her hair and rubbing raw her skin.

The wind didn't speak. It didn't quietly cower like the Coven or blatantly forgive like Giles. It simply blew the broken pieces of Willow into blessed nothingness as she sat.

The wind was. And as far as she was concerned, it was the most welcoming thing on earth.

The tree was her furthest hiding spot from the cottage. Sometimes, when the prospect of living seemed too daunting and paralyzing, she needed the quiet growth and easy seclusion of the woods for company.

The magick lessons, of course, didn't help. The magick was where it all began. And ended. There was nothing Willow wanted to be farther away from than it.

A part of her was innocently fascinated with what the Coven taught her. How it was all connected - Gaia and the root systems; like millions of tiny computer wires in a vast network. But every tendril she followed in the system drew to a forsaken shuddering end. It might have all been connected, but none of it led back to Tara.

So what was the point?

The interest ended there.

She engaged them, of course. The good student was too deeply ingrained to ignore, and it proved useful. But this time, no dormant hopeful innocence hid underneath. The driving force wasn't thirst for knowledge or geekish habit, but an empty inevitability.

All she wanted was a silent solitude; to be left alone and meditate until nothing remained. But they pressed with their magick and teachings, so she had no choice but to learn.

"_Willow, you must try to focus." _

_And because she had nothing left, she did. She took deep breaths and tried to imagine the edges of her sight hazing into white. But white just made her think of red. Faltering, she looked desperately into Ms. Harkness' eyes, her own pleading and begging and raw with fear. _

"_Willow, stay away from the red. Listen to my voice. Hum with me." _

_Weakly, she had forced her vocal chords to vibrate. Small and fragile at first, but with Ms. Harkness' hum resonating in the background, Willow inhaled and started again low. She didn't have the strength to tighten the pitch, but the deep strum grew strong and steady on it's own. _

_The hum encompassed her, filled her bones with a resonating rhythm, and drugged her mind. Willow sunk into the vibrations in her chest, down into the dark, and a warm tendril pulled forth and surrounded her in a giant yawn. _

_Nothing existed in the black except the safe and the pulsating warm. Willow was no more or no less than a hum. _

_Slowly, percolating drops of consciousness seeped into her mind, collecting and forming shape. It was several hours later that Willow fully came into herself again. _

_Her eyes fluttered open into the dusky light and she saw the patient, tender face of Ms. Harkness wearily smiling back at her proudly. _

_Willow hadn't understood until later, as she lay in bed in the dark, that she had relearned how to fall asleep. Away from the nightmares, Willow circumvented her way to slumber. Safe from the white, red, and inevitably, the blue. _

Willow sat up straight as she inhaled fully, stretching her and back and lungs. She stood and balanced herself on the tree, momentarily dizzy and lightheaded.

When the fuzz around her vision cleared, the long green stared in front of her; speckled with grass, shrubs, and wildflowers.

With a lasting breath, Willow began the long trek back.

_It's time to learn. _


	14. Pancakes

"Will, it's time you learned how to do this," Tara began patiently.

Approaching the counter with more than a hint trepidation, Willow asked timidly, "Are you sure? My cooking skills are kinda not so great. Remember the George Forman grill? It's not so George Forman-y anymore."

Tara smiled at the memory of the deceased kitchen appliance's demise. _How __**did**__ she end up getting an entire bowl of brownie batter on it in the first place?_

"Which reminds me, sweetie, lesson number one: grilling, baking, and cooking are three very different things."

"Uh, right. Okay. And sautéing is….?"

"A type of frying," Tara answered with a half-grin. "But don't forget the roasting, boiling, searing, poaching, braising, and deep-frying."

A look of blank awe smacked Willow across the face. "Wow. That's uh… a lot of terms."

_God, she's too cute._ Her smile never faltering, Tara nodded as she twisted around and reached for the cabinets. "Mhmm, so we'd better get started."

"Tara?" Willow squeaked.

Tara retracted her arm and turned around to face her girlfriend, who had backed herself into the island counter in the middle of the kitchen. "Yeah, sweetie?"

Biting her bottom lip, Willow glanced down at her feet before nervously asking, "What if I can't cook it right?"

At that moment Tara fell in love with Willow all over again. Right down to her jittery, bouncing toes encased in fuzzy pink socks.

Seeing Tara's lazy smile grow even wider, Willow grew puzzled. "Why are you smiling? This isn't smiley-face material. This is…I-could-start-a-fire-and-burn-the-house-down material. Not at all with the good."

Crossing her arms, Tara asked, "Willow, can I ask you a question?"

"Of course."

"What's sodium chloride?"

"Um, the ionization of sodium and chlorine atoms?"

Nodding, Tara questioned further. "Good. And what is the square root of pi squared."

After a moment of contemplation, a baffled Willow squeaked, "Uhhhh, pi?"

Opening a cabinet door, Tara pulled out a bowl and a large wooden spoon from the drawer near her thigh. Slapping them on the countertop next to Willow, she slid close to her lover, feeling their legs and hips melt together like warm chocolate. "And how did you know both of those answers?"

Growing incredibly distracted by the lips dancing in front of her eyes, Willow offered, "Three quarters of a bachelors degree and a handful of mediocre classes in high school?"

Putting her arms on the counter on either side of Willow, Tara leaned in and whispered, "Follow the formula."

Gulping, Willow's brain wasn't making the neural connections necessary to catch Tara's point. "Following. the…….what?"

Pulling back with an extremely satisfied look on her face, Tara grabbed the bag of flour and placed it into Willow's capable hands. "The recipe for salt requires synthesis of the ingredients sodium and chloride. For the other, you had to first multiply 3.14 by itself, then divide that by itself to reach a conclusion, yes?"

Willow nodded.

"All you have to do in order to cook is break down the recipe into an equation. It's no different than a science experiment or a math problem. Follow. _(kiss)_ The. _(kiss)_ Steps _(kiss)_," Tara finished, punctuating the last three words by kissing Willow on the nose.

The pieces finally clicking into place, a warm confidence poured into Willow, and her face blossomed into a brilliant smile. "How do you do that?"

Tara gathered Willow in a loose embrace, "Well, it was easy 'cause I love you so much. But I'll admit, I had an ulterior motive."

Looking up into Tara's eyes, the redhead implored, "And what might that be exactly?"

"Well, where would you be when you want to pamper your poor, sick girlfriend who's stuck in bed with the flu and you don't know how to make pancakes?"

With a burst of laughter, Willow pecked Tara lovingly on the cheek and began gathering supplies and ingredients with a vivacious flourish.

Soon, buttermilk pancakes were sizzling in the pan and Willow was stirring another batch of batter in a bowl. The kitchen was pregnant with love, and the air was laden with the warm scent of baking. Blissfully content, Tara soaked up the smell of a perfect Sunday mo-

Tara's eyes fluttered open to the sunshine dancing through the window blinds. She lay under the blankets, still a bit groggy from her dream. It had been so easy for the memory-smell of pancakes to sensually waft her into consciousness. She let the familiar heaviness settle into her heart like it did every morning, but suddenly her eyes snapped open.

_Wait, that's not right. Where's that smell coming from?_

Slinking out of bed, Tara yanked her bathrobe from where it hung on the wardrobe and was pulling it on when every single nerve in her body jumped in alarm.

Tara froze.

A clang. It may have been muffled through the floorboards, but a definite and resounding _clang_ reverberated throughout the house and shattered her world.

Tara's pulse pounded in her ears as she stood motionless, but she was soon jolted into action as she heard indistinct mutterings join the clattering downstairs.

_No. It's impossible._

Scrambling to the door, Tara flattened one palm against the hard surface and cracked open the door. The cool air from the hallway blew onto Tara's face and she closed her eyes with joyous rapture.

It had been so long, _oh_ so long since she had heard those sounds. Tears leaked from her eyes as Tara stood clutching the door, soaking up the ordinary noises, thinking them more beautiful than any birdsong or opera.

It was almost unrecognizable, this feeling. So foreign, Tara had long given up any expectation of seeing it again. Something as simple as hope had abandoned her. Yet here it was, sizzling and glowing and welling within her, as she let herself believe her waiting might be over.

_At last. This is it. Let her come claim me. _

She was about to swoop down the stairs in excitement, but a sudden fear expelled her delicate hope, causing Tara to pull back. Was it all another trick? A dream? For all Tara knew, she could still be asleep now, floating on the tendrils of fantasy, only to again wake with a horrible and consuming emptiness.

But the _smell_. It pulled her from her misgivings and she took a first step into the hallway. Hardly breathing, as if it would shatter the possibility of the moment, Tara slowly crept down the stairs, each step bringing her closer to the euphoric noises in the kitchen. Slinking across the floor, Tara's heart resumed it's rapid fluttering as the sounds in the kitchen grew clearer. It nearly thumped out of her chest when she saw a body at the counter.

_Finally. My Willo-_

Whatever hope had blossomed inside Tara earlier, in an instant burned to ashes. The metallic taste of copper invaded her mouth and her heart dropped into her stomach. The smile that had graced her face withered into a grotesque twist when the figure turned to face her.

As Tara wavered in the doorway to the kitchen, Spike turned around, spatula in hand, and watched her fall to her knees.

"Oh, you. Need more eggs," was all Tara heard before she blissfully let blackness claim her.


	15. Pop Tarts

Buffy shuffled into the kitchen just in time to see Xander grabbing a carton of juice from the fridge. He pulled a glass from the cabinet over the sink and turned, offering her a cheery salutation.

"Ahh, mornin', Buff. I see you're all rise with the shine."

The morning Slayer greeted him with less enthusiasm, grabbed a cup for herself and motioned for him to pour her some juice as well before slumping into a chair. She drained the tangy orange liquid in a few gulps, put the glass down onto the counter, and grunted a reply. "Ugh. Mornings? So not my thing."

"Funny, considering how many times you get to see it after a whole night of _not _sleeping."

Since the juice had little effect on her ravenous appetite, Buffy shot Xander a look of pure unamusement before getting up to grab a box of Pop-Tarts from the shelf.

Xander returned the look with one of his own, as he asked, "Which leads me to my next question: How is it you've clearly never been introduced to the world of breakfast foods before?"

With a look of mock offense on her face, Buffy held up a foil-encrusted package, "I'm all about the breakfast foods! This? Total nutrition. It's a meal in pancake form."

Xander raised his eyebrows and countered, "Yeah, if normal pancakes had partially hydrogenated soybean oil, high fructose corn syrup, and big-named chemicals starting with the letter 'x' in them that no-one-can-pronounce, then sure… color them nutritious."

The sound of footsteps thundering down the stairs interrupted the wildly entertaining conversation. Dawn strutted into the kitchen, and squealed at Buffy, "Oooh, Pop-Tarts? Sa-weet!" She yanked the other sugar bomb out of the package and promptly began devouring it with gusto.

Buffy threw her hands up in frustration. "Have you no respect for your elders?"

"Actually, I'm a few thousand years old. So, technically? I'm older than you."

Before the sisterly affections got out of hand, Xander interrupted, "Ooookay, I think that's enough breakfast talk for now. Hows about I take Dawnie here out for a tour of her happy new Hellmouthy home?"

Despite the fact that her mouth was still full, Buffy tried to speak, "Mmm! Xander, don't forget to bring the plans back before school starts." She turned to Dawn, wagged her finger, and continued, "And you, missy, best behavior. Don't even think about trying to steal Tito's hammer again. I won't get in the way of the angry carpenter next time."

Dawn rolled her eyes and huffed, "Omigod. For the _tenth _time, Xander dared me to."

Xander shook his head and smiled nervously as he quickly shuffled Dawn out, waving to Buffy as they left.

The kitchen felt hollow now, empty of all nose and sound. The silence slowly settled like a cloak and hummed against her skin. Buffy turned back around to face the window above the sink and stared into the sunlight.

She watched the particles float in and out of the flickering shadows of the blinds, swirling and dancing in the luminous rays. They warmed Buffy's face as she closed her eyes, letting her skin soak up the soft moment for a long while.

Then, she grabbed the phone from the cradle, dialed, and waited for the call to go through. After a moment, she heard a small _click _as someone pick up.

"Giles?"


	16. The Dam

The first thing she noticed was the sound. It pounded and pulsed everywhere.

With a groan, Tara tried to sit up but a sharp twinge forced her to fall back down. As the pain subsided, she realized the loud sound was, in fact, her head throbbing. As she reached up to rub her temple, Tara opened her eyes tenderly and blinked several times to get used to the light.

She found herself lying on the couch in the living room, and again attempted to sit up. This time, however, she was met with success.

From the left, she heard, "Careful, luv. You hit the floor hard, bound to leave a mark."

In a flourish of panic and alarm, Tara fell off the couch and scrambled back as fast as she could, hitting the far wall with a thump. She clutched her chest and felt her heart pound. "W-w-wh…" Too shocked and rattled to speak clearly, Tara cursed herself, and tried again. "What _are_ you?" she hissed.

"What, you don't know me? Spike. Vampire. Big Bad. Helped you Samaritans out of the goodness of my own heart."

Tara shook her head, still crouched on the floor. She was about to speak when Spike interrupted her.

 "And I should be askin' you the questions here, luv. You're the one that died," he finished and slumped back into the couch.

The blood in her veins turned to ice.

_What? _

Somewhere, Tara vaguely remembered feeling numb in the tips of her fingers.

Spike examined his fingernails and reclined in his seat, hoisting his feet up onto the tabletop. "Great. So I'm stuck in some crazy dimension with Red's dead bird. Brilliant."

_Dead. Is that what all this is?_   Tara heard his words through a fog. Time had slowed in a tiny space of her mind. Endless days passed through her mind, reflecting the lonely hours that had loomed ahead, scratched bare of hope or belief.

She remembered the first few terrifying and horrific days. But nothing, nothing had been worse than the first moments.

_Willow was radiant. The room had glowed. No, __she__ had glowed with an intense love that warmed Tara right to the gut like a shot of whiskey. It started in the throat, trickled down into her bowels, and spread through her system, leaving Tara merrily drunk in its stead. _

_Everything was perfect. _

_She should have known, right then, when people are happiest on the Hellmouth, that something wrong would happen. Blinded by Willow-light, Tara hadn't heard the window shatter. She hadn't registered anything other than her love's beauty marred._

"_Your shirt…" she had said before she tripped, numbed and shocked, to the ground. _

_She had to get up. Willow was covered in blood. She must have been hurt. Willow was hurt, and Tara had to get to her. She pushed the cold away and scrambled to her feet, desperate to help her lover. _

"_WILLOW!"_

_The room was gone. Willow was gone. _

_Tara snapped around, her hair whipping the side of her face, causing several strands to catch at the side of her mouth._

_She faced the White._

_Piercing ivory surrounded her on all sides and she tried to find her way back. The air was thick; cottony and unyielding. Tara yelled and sprinted forward with her arms outstretched. As if a giant wall had suddenly relented, Tara's momentum propelled her through the White and downward as it gave way, causing her head to smack into a maroon carpeted floor. _

_She forced her head up, and used her hands to push herself unsteadily to her knees. Darkness pressed on the backs of her eyelids, but she stubbornly wobbled up.   She jolted forward, "NO!" _

_The room was back. But Willow was gone. _

  Tara had spent countless nights screaming into nothing and days frantically searching Sunnydale for any signs of life. She hadn't showered. She hadn't rested. She hadn't eaten. She hadn't done anything except look for a way back. And when that hadn't worked, she found herself melting in sobs of hysteria.

  She had finally succumbed to exhaustion and slept for 33 drugged hours. It had been the only time she had slept through the night since.

Spike's words were far away, but eventually they seeped into Tara's ear and registered at once. Her head snapped up and she looked wildly into Spike's eyes. "What?"

Realization slowly dawned on Spike and he looked at her with a hint of curiosity.

_Oh, bollocks._

"You really don't know, do you?" He asked softly.

Tara shook her head.

Spike let a long sigh and ran his hand through his hair. "Word on the streets says you died a few months back. Shot." 

Ice filled her chest.

_No, it can't be. _

"No," she said firmly, speaking more to herself than to him. "Willow was shot."

_I can't be the one that's shot. That means I'm gone and she's all alone. I would never leave Willow. _

Her stomach churned and her throat pounded. Tara began to rock back and forth, shaking her head forcefully. "No, she can't be all alone. I promised I'd never leave again. I-I p-promised. I'd never l-leave."

 Air couldn't come fast enough. It seemed to evaporate the moment it entered her lungs. She tried to gulp it down, but her breathing hitched and gave way to a sob. And that sob to another. 

 Suddenly, there seemed to be no end to the river that flowed out of her. She cried for all the nights she had spent grasping a pillow to her breast hoping to shake the darkness from her heart. She cried for the mornings she woke with screams and the sound of a window shattering echoing in her ears. She cried for herself. But mostly she cried for Willow. And how it was that she existed without her.

Meanwhile, Spike watched solemnly as Tara sat in the corner having a quiet meltdown. He didn't quite know what to do, but he felt heavy and uncomfortable. Unsure, but determined to do something, Spike got off the couch and awkwardly began to rub her back. Through her tears, Tara clutched onto Spike and gave herself over to the only arms that had held her in months.

Spike gathered her close and rocked her in sympathy, slowing her frantic shaking while the shadows lengthened on the wall.

And there she sat, hunched on the floor, crippled by grief and bruised by circumstance as she let her aching heart cry.


	17. Damp

Willow felt her then.

Right……there.

A deep pang of Tara that sliced her open and made her gasp with hurt. The pain was suddenly everywhere. She felt it echo and pound around her, dragging her down into the deep. Willow cried out, felt her knees buckle, and the world spin.

In a flash, Giles dipped to catch Willow where she fell, and kneeled in the grass, holding her strongly. The ground was damp from the rain the day before, and tiny water bubbles surfaced as his boots squished into the grass. He had missed the subtle nuances of the earth while in Sunnydale. The pristine California sunshine had spoiled him, but here he remembered how to relish the wet mornings and early fog. They rooted him, deep and ancient, into the countryside. He felt more connected than he had in a long time. In the end, maybe that was why he had brought Willow here. Perhaps here she could feel the rustic strength and wisdom that infused the weary and the lost. Including him.

Laden with Willow's dead weight, Giles counted the moments until she regained consciousness. He never got used to them, but eventually grew accustomed to the bouts of heartache and agony that overwhelmed Willow and forced her to the ground. He knew the blackouts were connected with her lessons. The new magicks introduced into her black-scarred system were bound to have their bumps and bruises along the way. She needed to re-learn how to use the light she was given.

He sighed.

_I was so blind._ _So foolishly blind._

He knew the dirty residuals that rehabilitation created, clinging like sand to clammy flesh. It had haunted him in dark corners when Slaying business had retired for the evening and he was left alone in his house with naught but a smooth glass of scotch for company. How little he had touched magic since the days of Ripper. He let the power shrivel inside, too afraid to wrestle with his own potential. For good or bad, he didn't care to find out.

The dank guilt of his deeds tumbled inside of him for decades, sequestered, but never forgotten. It nagged on his conscious and pulled often, like a gentle tug. _Don't forget me,_ it said.

He never forgot.

He did, however, hoard his flaws, like nuts for the winter, keeping them safe and secret. And because he was narrow in his ways and determined not to let the past repeat itself, he inadvertently let the future happen. He ignored the warning signs and led his daughter astray. His fears and shortcomings had led to her downfall, and he would not be so quick as to let it happen ever again.

And so he held her protectively, and waited for her to return.

As the third minute slowly ticked by, Giles felt Willow stir.

_Gently, _he thought.

He watched her eyelids tremble and flutter. Her green eyes, dull like frosted sea glass, quivered open and she looked up at the pale sky. A moment passed as she stared blankly, her gaze passing over the faraway clouds. Willow's face strained as she pursed her lips, closed her eyes, and exhaled through her nose.

Giles was uncomfortable, and felt like he was intruding on a desperately private moment. He quietly cleared his throat, and soft as a lamb's breath asked, "Are you alright?"

Eyes still closed, Willow nodded and pressed her head into Giles' sleeve. "Can you just….hold me for a moment? Please?"

"I'd love nothing more." With that, he kissed the top of her head, and gazed at the spongy green hills across the valley, crowned with clusters of trees, as the sun made it's way, tumbling through the sky.

His eyes were filled with green and his hand with red as Giles absentmindedly stroked Willow's hair. Thoughts of his recent phone call circled lazily in his mind, lingering like day-old baked goods at the grocery store.

Buffy's voice had warmed him instantly. The brittle ice surrounding his spirit melted with the spring of her bright greeting. His eyes had crinkled at the corners like tissue paper when he smiled. He had forgotten, just for a moment, that there was more to the world than pain and grief.

_Trust Buffy to remind me._

It was more that just a phone call, really. Buffy had sounded much more collected than she had in quite some time. There wasn't a secret weariness or reluctant acceptness that tinged her every move. Buffy seemed…ready. And Giles was proud of her. She had done it all on her own, and he knew at what cost.

The call started innocently enough, with light banter sprinkled in like cinnamon, but soon he could hear the nervous curiosity that tinged her voice. It was a full twelve minutes before he even broached the topic of Willow.

"_Giles, are you sure? I though this was supposed to be a six month shindig. Now you're telling me she's ready_ _all of a sudden?"_

"_Buffy, this not about it being sudden. She doesn't have a choice in the matter, it's time."_

"_Time for what, the Copacabana? This isn't some sort of Coven initiation test, is it? See if she goes all Dark-Eyed-Magic-Mamma again at 'Welcome to Sunnydale' sign? 'Cause I don't much like the sound of that." _

_Giles' loud sigh could be heard muffled into the receiver. "Some matters have merely been taken into account, and we've come to the realization that it's time for Willow to go back. No tests, no dark magic, no experiments."_

_There was a pause. _

"'_We've come'? Giles, does Will even know she's coming back yet?"_

A lack of motion made Giles realize his hand had stilled, and was now resting heavily atop Willow's head. He looked down to see that she had cradled her fist beneath her chin and was clutching her other arm close to her chest. Her eyes still stared blankly into the hills beyond.

_I can't put this off any longer, it's time. Lord help me._

Ever so gently, Giles took his hand and nudged Willow's chin, tilting her head so she looked up at him. He stared deep into her eyes, leaden and weary, and felt the weight of a world on his shoulders.

_Forgive me, Willow. I know you didn't want any of this. Least of all to go back._

He took a deep breath to steel himself, felt the saturated air permeate every pore in his lungs with a primordial strength, then met her gaze. "Willow," he began. "We must talk."


	18. The Drain

The afternoon light was heavy with gold as the hours slowly matured into early evening, saturating the air. Shadows stretched across the floor, reaching and crawling under furniture and up walls like a slowly spreading coffee stain(desperate victim). Twilight was coming, and Spike was tired. The sun was sucking all the energy from his bones, gathering enough strength so it wouldn't crash into Japan as it passed below the horizon.

He sunk deeper into the couch, cushions billowing like clouds, and absentmindedly flipped through a _Better Homes & Garden _that had been **lying** out on the table while Tara fussed about in the kitchen making lunch. It had been hours since either of them had eaten. Eventually Tara wiped her eyes dry at the stubborn insistence of their stomachs. Besides, the crying had to stop eventually.

For one thing, Spike had had enough emotion to last him for another two hundred years as far as he was concerned. But strangely it hadn't bothered him as much as he thought it would. He felt a strange calm settle upon him like fine silk at the mere recollection. He might not have known where he was-or, for that matter, why he was, but for now, he had a purpose: hold Tara.

So hold her he did.

And he felt strong and good. But their growling hunger had interrupted the lonely spasms of heartbreak, so then came resolve and sandwiches.

He was busy admiring a particularly well organized bathroom arrangement when from the kitchen he heard Tara call, "Spike, do you want regular turkey, or smoked?"

Not bothering to glance up from the magazine, he didn't miss a beat. "Smoked."

Spike continued to mindlessly page turn, but the words twisted and blended into a tangle of text. Overcome by a sudden dizzy spell, his head reeled and the magazine fell from his grasp. He vaguely heard another yell, muffled but loud, from the kitchen, "Hey, Pop Tarts or Fruitloops?"

As soon as it began, his nausea ceased, and Spike found himself balanced precariously at the edge of the couch. Trying to shake off the strange feeling, he shouted back, "What are you playing at, Blondie? I said I wanted smoked."

A moment later, Tara entered the living room carrying two pale blue ceramic plates, toppled high with potato chips and the sandwiches of choice, and a frown plastered on her face. "Spike, who are you talking to?"

He opened his mouth to speak, but shut it abruptly and glanced over his shoulder. Seeing nothing, he turned back around to look at Tara who had sat down across the table and was staring at him worriedly. "Spike?"

Tiny alarm bells rang in the back of his brain, a long-forgotten sensation from his humanity, but he stubbornly ignored them and instead pressed, "So you didn't offer me breakfast foods just now?"

Tara shook her head, the crease in her forehead furrowing even deeper, "No, I-I didn't. Are...are you all right?"

_Her anxiety is bloody contagious. Broads got enough on her shoulders. Not gonna do her any good worrying about me too._

He let loose a perturbed scowl and shoved her useless concern away and instead thrust an open hand towards the tray. " 'Course I am. Now quit your worrying and give me my meat."


	19. Transubstantiation

There is a magic, delicate moment, sometime during the inescapable night, when time and space blend together like watercolor.

It had been hours since darkness descended and cast the world into weary shadow, pronouncing the deep tired that seeped into Tara and Spike's bones. It was an exceedingly draining day, and sleep was long overdue.

As the haze of unconsciousness fuzzed Spike's mind, he could no longer recall how long it had been since he'd shut the lights, peeled down the sheets, and crawled into bed. Sleep hummed in the back of his brain, pressing behind the eyes like a faint headache. He recalled, somewhat curiously, how foreign the sheets felt, weighing down his feet at the cliff of the bed. The fabric, although soft, seemed laden with starch when texture rubbed against his skin as he turned onto his stomach and flipped the pillow over to the cool side.

How long had it been since he had lain in a bed? It felt alien, having no chilled stone slab beneath him. Despite the warmth of the layers, the mattress remained distinctly cooler, reminding him, even in sleep, where he had come from- a tattoo of cotton.

But this moment, this delicate wire of transubstantiation, soon began to work it's magic.

In that tissue paper veil that shrouds sleepytime thoughts in embryonic cocoons, Spike disintegrated like paper pulp into a vat larger than himself. Soon, feeling passed beyond sensation and the bed and everything on it ebbed into the ocean of numb. It could have been Dreaming, but there was no sense of self in this place.

No, this was something far greater in which the being known as Spike traveled. It was beyond Space and Time itself.

On and on he tumbled, passing milky nebulas and streaking stars, floating gently through space. It was then that Infinity stretched out with its smoky tentacles, encased him in a haze of possibility and spat him out into the sun.

It was bright, it was sudden, and it sizzled. As the offending pain bored into his flesh, identity smacked back into him like a wet sock and Spike the Vampire was returned to the world.

And there he sat, crumpled up behind a restaurant alley, dumped rather unceremoniously by unknown forces. He stared dumbly at the crust of black-nail polish clinging stubbornly to his cuticles as the voices slowly trickled back into his head. The loudness again overtaking his mind distracted him from the sun while steam slowly started billowing out of the sleeves of his jacket.

His eyebrows furrowed in a weary confusion as a crowd only he could hear pounded in his eardrums. It was familiar, this feeling, and that made him more nervous than anything. Panic grasped him as he raised his head and queried to the empty alleyway, "Mommy?" before his legs crumpled and darkness overtook him.


	20. A Cup of Tea

+ It was strange, really, the things coming to England had brought- endless dark dreams and night sweats, driving on the wrong side of the road, deep meditations, British slang. But none struck Willow as more odd than adding milk to tea as she sat cushioned in an armchair, cradling a forgotten mug in her lap.

Despite Giles' insistence that tea was the all-time-cure for any ailment(an emotional band-aid of sorts) Willow never indulged in the drink. Instead, she preferred a hot, hearty mocha to stir up the blood in her veins. During the later than late nights of demon research at the Magic Box, a balmy liquid didn't appeal to her as much as the sugar-rich coffee. Truth be told, she never wanted to be soothed by a quiet cup of tea because there was always the worry of unwinding too much in the face of danger. No, the self-appointed demon researcher couldn't afford respite in tea. Mocha was thick, heavy with caffeine, and necessary to avoid relaxation. In the Scooby world, nothing was more dangerous than getting too comfortable.

Besides, Tara was always the one to drink tea and she drank enough for the both of them. Her and Giles often shared an affinity for a midnight cup of chamomile and hushed conversation. In the midst of various research, Willow would secretly watch while the two sat on the second floor overhang, reveling in the magic moment of people she loved together in harmony. Willow had no need for tea, she had Tara- more perfectly tranquil and steeped than any beverage.

Willow cupped her mug tightly, creating a loose warmth, as though the smooth-as-teeth porcelain might transport her back to such nights. Her legs remained numbed and forgotten, folded beneath her, when the door to the cottage cracked open and ushered in a very wet Ms. Harkness.

Her hair hung in ringlets, matted to her neck and face, while water continued to drip from the tips. Peeling off her jacket, Ms. Harkness hung it on the hook next to the door and valiantly attempted to make some semblance of order out of her tangled hair.

While precariously balancing on one leg trying to yank a boot off, Ms. Harkness glanced over her shoulder to see the still shape of Willow lost in thought. She grinned as the offending item was finally removed and celebrated by jolting her charge out of the subtle, yet ever-present melancholy.

"I should think that tea is quite cold by now, wouldn't you agree?"

Willow jumped and threw an arm over the chair so she could view her mentor. Noticing the woman's disheveled state, Willow flung into action, clunking the forgotten mug on the table in her haste. Concern immediately flooded her features. "Ms. Harkness, why are you- is everything all right? Was there a storm? Are you hurt? Are you okay?"

"Willow, dear, I'm quite alright, thank you. Although I do believe my umbrella has died a most violent death, I seem to have escaped with a mere soaking. How lucky of me."

Willow's fussing dimmed and her shoulders sagged with a noticeable relief. A soft "Oh," escaped her lips.

"I do believe I've braved far worse weather in this countryside than a mere rainstorm. Thought there was that one time _years_ ago during a veritable monsoon and a bottle of, what was it now, Sambucca?"

Ms. Harkness, having trailed off, stood and squinted at the far wall with fond memories. Willow, in the meantime, stared back with an equally squinty, yet curious expression. "Ms. Harkness?"

"Hmm?"

"Ms. Harkness."

"What? Oh yes. Never mind that. Another story for another time, hmm?" Ms. Harkness motioned for them to sit.

"Willow," she said and waited for her to meet her gaze. "I assume that since this is the first time you've missed dinner in quite some time, Rupert has finally told you."

Willow didn't trust her voice. Instead, she nodded and looked at the floor.

"One of us was going to tell you last week, but he came to me and requested to do it himself."

It was all right, after all. Willow had supposed this moment was coming ever since she arrived at the Coven. As much as she longed to stay forever and never go back, a part of her always knew it had to end.

Then again, she'd never expected to stay for so long. A part of her believed she'd be thrown out after only a few days. _Hopeless. Useless. A lost cause. Too evil to be bothered with. _She had even packed her bags one morning, but instead of a taxi, she was greeted with hot breakfast.

"But how?"

Ms. Harkness crinkled her forehead in confusion, "Sorry dear, what?"

_Damn._

She didn't even realize she'd spoken, but it was impossible to backtrack now.

She'd never told anyone before, not the group, not the Coven, not even Ms. Harkness or Giles, but there was something that lurked deep within the shadows. Willow would feel it crawl under her skin, up her neck, and in her fingers. It was everywhere. And it oozed. All the time. Always. Everywhere.

It wouldn't have been so terrifying if it came unawares, but The Black struck when she was most focused; it was in the hum when she meditated and the roots when she was at the tree. It grabbed her down like a tide too strong and drowned her in the darkness until she was no more. Giles had been there a few times, but she had a sprinkling of bruises up and down her body for all the times he hadn't. It scared the shit out of her.

"How," her voice cracked, "am I supposed to go back with all this blackness inside of me?"

"Willow."

So wrapped up in her fear, she didn't register that Ms. Harkness had sat next to her and grabbed her hands in her own. "_Willow,_ look at me."

Numbly she made eye contact, the hot tears that welled made everything blurry. She could barely make out Ms. Harkness.

"You, my dear, are a very special witch. That darkness? It is a remnant. Of the things you've done, of the lessons you've learnt. Had you given into it, you wouldn't feel it at all. It is remorse, it is guilt, it is regret. For everything that has happened and everything that now will be. Embrace it, Willow. It makes you human."

Willow knew she was human, this was no surprise. But after everything she'd learnt on the Hellmouth, being human made you no better than a demon. It just made you worse. Because humans have a choice. And she had made that choice anyway. She gave into it, that darkness, that evil. Sometimes it just seemed easier to end it. A few times she nearly had.

But something smooth, hard, and warm stood in her way. Willow looked down and found the cup of tea in her hands. When had she grabbed it? The tea of midnight, of chamomile, and whispers. The tea of Tara. Willow gripped the mug tighter and resolve bubbled to the surface.

A great glow of Tara infused her. Willow was the water and Tara was the tea. She soaked up the moment, letting Taratea seep into her bones. Willow knew it wouldn't last long, but for now? For this minute? It was enough. Willow breathed through her nose and looked back at Ms. Harkness.

_So be it._

"When do I pack?"


	21. A Humid Night

The heat was disgusting. This particular summer had ushered in that special heat that even a good cold shower can't fix; the second you're dried off, the sticky heat comes back with a vengeance.

Clem wiped his brow and felt beads of perspiration ooze from the 387 separate gland zones on his body, and wished he'd settled somewhere farther east. Where there were four seasons. And where it was cold six months out of the year. Five of which involved snow.

_Mmmm, snow. _

Clem frowned and tried to push images of white-capped trees and mittens out of his head. Instead, he pinched his soaking, oversized t-shirt in a vain attempt to let it air out. He felt more than conscious sitting in a pool of sweat, but was somewhat comforted knowing his companions were equally plagued. Three straight hours of poker in the back of Willy's Pub could do that to a demon. Hell, it would do that to _anyone_, demon or otherwise.

Employing a self-control he didn't realize he possessed, Clem managed to keep his fidgeting to a minimum while the table finished their hand. The last card had barely touched the table when he pushed his chair back and slapped his hands on the table. "Well, fellas, this's been fun and all, but I'm thinking a break is in order. Think we can call ten?"

Various hisses, snorts, and whistles replied. "Great, thanks. Oh, and Mike? I have those cockroaches I owe you, just left them in my car. Thanks for the loan, buddy," he called back as he hovered in the rear doorway.

Business taken care of, Clem turned to face the night. His shoulders sagged in relief as the cooler air in the alleyway nipped at his flesh. His perspiration was bordering on unsanitary, so he took out the small towel he'd decided to carry with him and sopped up the unsightly mess of his glistening skin.

"I bet its fifty degrees and raining in Massachusetts. Why didn't I listen to Mother? She warned me but _nooo_, I just _had_ to 'go to west young demon'," he grumbled as his folded the cloth and put it back into his pocket. He sighed and looked up at the sky. The industrial orange glow of Sunnydale cast itself into the heavens, but a few stars managed to twinkle at him in the distance. Clem waved back, and was mid-swing heading back inside when something glittered and caught his eye. Naturally, he followed the shiny.

"Oh, no."

Moonlight danced off silver buckles on a pair of black boots sticking out from behind a dumpster. Attached to the boots lay a very unconscious Spike.

As he crept closer, Clem immediately became concerned with the cuts and wounds that littered Spike's body. Parts of his leather jacket had melted onto his skin, which made visible the red and blistering burns that seemed to still sizzle. A deep gash was on the cheekbone under his eye and looked like something had nibbled on it for dinner. "This is not a good place for you, buddy," Clem grimaced and knelt down to pick up his friend. He grunted as he hoisted Spike onto his shoulders and staggered under the weight.

Clem had since redecorated the place he was supposed to crypt-sit. As the months went by, it hadn't seemed like Spike was returning, so he'd made himself comfortable. Twisting around, he racked his brains for another location. Somewhere safe. Away from prying eyes. And daylight. Especially daylight.

_Bingo._

The card game and cockroaches forgotten, Clem set forth with heavy cargo, resolve, and an idea. "All right, let's pray that new high school's up to code. I hope it doesn't collapse again. That would just be… unpleasant." He clambered on, footsteps fading into the distance and silhouette into the mist as night swallowed them up in one big gulp.


	22. Boats

_"All of these lines across my face  
Tell you the story of who I am  
So many stories of where I've been  
And how I got to where I am  
But these stories don't mean anything  
When you've got no one to tell them to  
It's true...I was made for you"_  
:: Brandi Carlile, _The Story_::

It was like finding a needle in a haystack.

Dawn surveyed the ocean of newspapers, magazines, and various ads that surrounded her. She watched Buffy snap the cap onto the now-empty red marker, which had died a noble death after hours making pretty red circles. Dawn sighed.

_A huge freaking haystack._

Despite the many benefits and advantages of the fast-food market, making a profit proved impossible, prompting Buffy to quit the Doublemeat Palace. Dawn hadn't minded, actually. They'd eaten so many Doublemeaty Doublechicken Buckets that she swore her hands permanently smelled like grease. Then again, it was probably only half as bad as Buffy felt. A few months earlier, Dawn had glimpsed a bank statement sticking out of an envelope on the desk and it shocked her. She had no idea it was that bad.

It was odd thinking that after all the world-saving work the Scoobies have done, trivial, bureaucratic things like bills would be the thing to cripple them. It was just so…._stupid. _

At least last year they'd been somewhat sheltered when Willow, Tara, and Xander had quietly poured in a bit of each paycheck and profit, no matter how tiny, hoping to keep things afloat. Xander still tried sometimes, but Buffy would tuck the envelope back into his jacket pocket when he came over, telling him to put it towards 'living bachelorly'. Whatever _that_ meant.

Dawn, whenever she could, would sneak the envelope back in after a Xanderdate. She knew how much he wanted to help. That's what Xander did. He was a helper. Just like her.

"So. Prospects. What are they?" Dawn asked optimistically, clasping her hands together.

Buffy picked up the pad of paper with the collected list of options. She glanced down and reported, "Thirty-three jobs in twelve different fields, none of which I'm qualified for," before slapping the pad back on the table. "Eight hours of job research, and Giles tells me I don't apply myself. **So** not fair."

"Well, y'know, he's British, so his ideas of 'applying oneself' include polishing new shoes and are therefore way messed up. I wouldn't trust him."

Buffy gave Dawn an appreciative smile before picking up the pad to stare at it properly.

"I just don't get it, am I that un-hireable?" she muttered miserably. "I mean, sure, I get covered in seven kinds of vampire dust each night, but I clean up real good. I even have," she paused, counting fingers under her breath, "…three shirts without blood on them! Three! That's two more than I had in college!"

"Which you...kinda didn't graduate from." Seeing Buffy's face crumble before her, Dawn quickly stammered on. "Not that you weren't busy saving the world and stuff, and taking care of Mom and me, which is **way** more important, but the real world is sorta finicky on the degree thing. Which you kinda don't have," she finished meekly with a hopeful cringe.

Exhaling loudly, Buffy sighed, "You're right. And I _know_ you're right. It just sucks. Big-time. Big-time suckage of the Greek Tragedy variety."

Dawn saw it: the instance right before it could all sink. The moment they could both fall into the rut of despondency and miserable silence, a dank, familiar ship that had been capsizing all summer now.

But even if she used all her fingers to plug holes in the hull to keep them from sinking, Dawn was resolute. It was enough, and if Buffy couldn't do it herself, then Dawn would do it for her.

Determined to ride the tide, Dawn grabbed a fresh newspaper and peeled the sections apart, handing one to her sister "Yep. It sucks. But'cha know what else has great variety? All these jobs we haven't looked at yet! There've got to be lots of vacancies on account of all the randomly deceased dying and stuff in Sunnydale, it just all a matter of timing. The more we put in, the luckier we'll get. See? Glass half-full to death and destruction."

With a curt nod, Buffy saluted, "You're right. For the second time in two minutes, which has to be a new record. I think you might be taking vitamins. Well alrighty Cap'n, let's get lucky!" She grabbed the paper and began searching anew.

Pleased with the turn of events, Dawn sat back in her seat and smiled. _Oh yeah, Baywatch Dawn. I should totally have my own action figure_


	23. Purpose

Tara had been starting to resent the kitchen.

Here she was, again.

Like all other days Since, Tara kept herself busy, but this time it wasn't to trick herself into being calm. Now, she cooked for pleasure, so her hands would have something to do. _This_ time she let her brain think, because she could afford to.

She knew herself well. She _could_ idly sit and think, but that would soon give way to panic, which would serve her no good. No, Tara needed to keep herself together; not for herself anymore, but for him. Never in her life did she expect a 'Him' to sweep her off her feet, yet here he was, turning Tara's world topsy-turvy with something as seemingly insignificant as morning pancakes.

It was pleasant, baking for someone other than herself. Normally, she'd pack up a plate of scones, cookies, muffins, or pies and, like a good neighbor, wrap it in a basket and deposit it on the kitchen tables of other disturbingly empty homes on the street- unholy carcasses of love and family.

At least then the treats weren't sitting on **her** table, quietly mocking **her** with their uneaten chocolates and jams.

Before, she was politely throwing her food away in other people's empty houses. Now, she baked for a purpose.

_Purpose._

Spike had mumbled something about purpose last night before going to bed, but she had been too tired to think about it at the time. It was only when she'd turned off the lights and was in bed staring at the ceiling that she realized her body was humming. Despite the aching yawn of her bones and the weary strain of her muscles, Tara found she could not fall asleep. Her brain was far too busy.

Purpose. What was hers?

That was simple. To love Willow. It had always been so simple.

But never easy.

Not that Tara didn't feel love for Willow – she felt that with all of her being. But to give that love? To send it? To show it? To _live_ it? There was always something standing in the way.

The demon. Her family. The Scoobies, at first. Glory. Death. Magick…Death.

_Closing yet another book that yielded nothing, Tara slumped in her chair and rubbed her face. They'd been researching for weeks, but hadn't been able to find anything - no hidden loophole, no secret prophecy - that would bring Buffy back again._

_Evenings at the Magic Box had been a given, Dawn even had her own homework niche permanently stationed on the corner table. This particular night she was home having a movie night with Spike. The two of them seemed to cling to each other more often now. A proper pair of bandits equally lost in a den of despondency. _

_And so there they were, two witches, an ex-demon, and a carpenter prowling Giles' library at midnight. Willow hadn't touched her in days. _

_Tara glanced over at the cloth bandage that covered raw wires sticking out of the Buffybot's neck and sighed. She swallowed, faintly tasting bile in the back of her throat. _

_The nausea in her mouth propelled Tara to rest her head on Willow's shoulder. She could feel tense muscles underneath the thin t-shirt. "Willow, baby?" she whispered, reaching for her arm. Tara took the teal pen Willow held, laid it flat on the table, and placed her own hand atop Willow's._

_She raised her head and looked at Willow, who stared heavily at the expanse of tomes in front of her. "Sweetie?" Tara frowned. Ever so slowly, the hand beneath her own, one that Tara knew dearly- had lovingly traced and kissed hundreds of times in privacy and shadow- shrank away, leaving the cool wood of the table to kiss her palm. _

_Willow swallowed. Her lips were taut and her brow was furrowed in resolve, but her eyes betrayed the slew of emotions within. "Not now, Tara. I've got-" she stopped, picked up her pen and sighed. "I'm sorry. Just…Not now." _

_Tara's heartbeat faltered and everything slid away until only the sleek table, which grew warmer from the heat of her fingers, existed and grounded her to the earth. That moment was the slow beginning of the end. When danger, magick, and duty came first. _

There was always an obstacle preventing Tara from doing her purpose. Why did something that came so easy and natural have to be so difficult?

Instead of being puposeless, Tara had lain in bed with one hand flat against the wall, reveling in the knowledge that some other being was on the other side. He may not have been what she was expecting, but the fact that he _was_, exceeded any of her expectations.

His presence proved there was meaning to her existence, that she wasn't some cosmic joke or mistake. She'd forgotten, in routine, pattern, and recipe, how to live. It hurt too much even thinking of a life without Willow- one where her smile didn't grace the heavens, where her heart didn't get to beat with the earth. But if he existed, that meant she did too. And if there's anything Tara believed, it was that no one is without purpose. Despite obstruction or vicissitude, whether it be death or a soul, there was meaning. No force on earth is strong enough to deter her from this truth. And Tara would not let her get that lost again.

So here she was. Again, baking. For a purpose.

And though it was nearing early afternoon, said Purpose was still upstairs asleep.

But _by_ God, Tara was tired of waiting.

And this time, because she could, Tara would do something about it


	24. Tech Services

_The food that I'm eating  
Is suddenly tasteless  
I know I'm alone now  
I know what it tastes like  
So break me to small parts  
Let go in small doses_  
:: Regina Spektor, _Ode to Divorce_::

Xander hated Tech Services. In the eighth grade he'd gotten caught for calling a late-night naughty 1-800 number and had since nursed an avoidance for all things toll-free.

"_If you have problems with a Microsoft program, please press 1. If you have problems with a Macintosh program, press 2. If you have problems with a …"_

The spreadsheet for labour costs, equipment fees, and orchestrating charges from his latest construction gig had frozen. Right there on the screen, all the data from work zone B was glitched and now displayed columns from the company demo-sheet.

"_If you have problems with a program from Microsoft Office, please press 1."_

Excel wasn't his strongpoint, and Anya had always made sure to demonstrate that when it came time to organizing finances. Quicken would suffice for most people, but Anya wanted a full layout of all monetary accounts before inputting information. _"I don't trust it, Xander. Software that calculates that quickly and efficiently has to have a secret agenda. I don't like the automated thing." _He would chuckle and agree, then go back to whatever he was doing. Somehow he knew she was worried about becoming obsolete. What would happen if computers could learn to love money as much as she did?

Listlessly, he randomly tapped a few keys on the keyboard. Nothing.

Normally, Xander would leaf through the manual or 'Help' page for about forty seconds to perpetuate his manliness before calling his personal go-to digital guru.

But she wasn't here anymore, and he was stuck calling some schmuck in an office god-knows-where instead of his best friend. Suddenly- or not-so suddenly, as it was always there- Xander missed Willow with a ferocious ache.

He'd never been without her for so long. Instead of poker nights when Anya would win, Willow would protest and Buffy would still not understand how to play, he had a cheap, empty apartment and lived off of noodles and QVC. The life he loved so desperately had crumbled. No letters, phone calls, emails, random visits or refrigerator raiding. What was the point of being a Scooby if there was no gang? They fell apart- Xander fell apart -and he didn't know how to pick up the pieces.

"_Hello, this is Mike speaking, how can I help you?" _

Xander sighed. "Hi, Mike, I'm Xander. Sorry to bother you, but um…never mind." He hung up the phone.

Doing nearly anything these days made Xander cringe with familiarity. His life was sculpted, perfected, and structured on a ragtag team of desperados. With them gone, he was just…floating.

Xander wasn't a floater. Give a guy oversized weapons he has no idea how to use and he'll be your champion. But this? This…crap? He hated it.

Not one minute since he'd hung up, the phone rang. "Mike, buddy, I told ya I was sorry, just sorta…changed my mind."

"Xander?" replied a confused, distinctly female voice.

"Buffy?"

"No, apparently I'm some guy named Mike. Anything you wanna talk about, mister?"

He grinned. "Aah, no, that would just be my new friend from tech support. I kinda gave up at the last minute. What's up, Buff?"

Static buzzed for a moment as Buffy hesitated. At her next words, his heart skipped a few beats.

"She's coming back."


	25. The First Day

Dawn was nervous.

It's not every day one starts High School. Especially one that seemed to be a penchant for straight-up-end-of-the-world evil.

_Slow down, Tiger, you can do this. _

Mental checklist: stylish yet respectable outfit? Teeth brushed? Breakfast? Check, check, and check.

Be an adult. At least as adult one can be in ninth grade. She could do that right, be a grown-up? Heck, Buffy took her patrolling nowadays and she even _to_tally made a good impression on the principal. Before homeroom even started!

Dawn had a good feeling. And those didn't happen so often. She happily fondled the cell phone in her pocket.

Really? I mean, _really_? Honestly, how cool. Bette's parents wouldn't get her a cell phone until she had her license, and it was literally _all_ the girl would talk about. Geez, obsess much? Dawn made a mental flag to keep all mention of Buffy's gift as far away from Bette as possible.

She'd been wondering when her family would pick up on modern technology. For a group of people in dire need of constant communication(one of whom was a computer-science major), they sure seemed to be slow on the uptake. Oh well, better late than never, right?

Dawn twisted through the hallway, skirting narrowly to avoid major collisions with large backpacks, stocky athletes, gaggles of girls, and general traffic.

Everything was so...big. The lockers, the football players, even the classrooms seemed supersized. No one looked at her, everyone was far too busy with the hullabaloo of the first day back.

Dawn felt like a dandelion-whisked into the wind about to be lost.

As if choreographed, lockers slammed simultaneously, high fives were given, lipstick was hurriedly put on, and everyone scattered like ants and disappeared into different rooms.

Suddenly alone in the hallway, Dawn swallowed the butterflies down. She could do this. She'd done way worse things than the first day of school. She fought demons, had been kidnapped more times than she could count, was almost sacrificed, stayed up late doing research about things that would give other kids nightmares, and by golly, she had a cell phone.

Dawn smiled and looked at her schedule. _Crap. _

"O-kay, where is D-14 again?


	26. An Apology

_"Pick me up softly, I don't know the shape that I'm in  
One bullet missed me, the other one kissed me  
And left me to die in the dirt.  
They killed every last man and shot down my Suzanne  
It's over whatever it's worth  
So pick me up stranger, pick me up softly  
I don't know how much I've been hurt"_  
::Joe Purdy, _Cowboy Song_::

Day Twenty.

That's what it was, twenty days since she chose to go back. That meant nineteen nights she had lain awake, barely sleeping afraid that in a moment of exhaustion, the blackness would come claim her and change her mind.

Now, returning wasn't an option. The calls had been made, flights schedules, taxis reserved, and within a span of 28 hours Willow found herself without even a choice to back down.

Articles of clothing in various piles of organization were scattered around the room, a sprinkle of clutter amongst as well. Empty suitcases lay open, beckoning Willow to pile them with things.

Willow was not looking forward to going back, to say the least.

Half of her still desperately wanted to crawl away, worried that even England was not far enough away from Sunnydale. Yet at the same time, she could not help a tiny part of her from believing that staying so far away was wrong. She was a widow. And of all the guilt she carried, not staying with Tara had been her greatest burden and mistake.

How could she? How could she dare to leave when she'd just gotten her back? Willow abandoned her love, left her alone with the carpet for a shroud and Dawn to find, unadorned and bereft, cooling in the shadows.

Willow knew that that was her greatest crime of all.

It haunted her at night during the nightmares. Tara would lie on the floor in the darkness, her flesh tinged blue, limbs sprawled out with that damned red splotch in the middle of her shirt. Then her eyes would open, like a porcelain doll, and stare straight at Willow. Mute and motionless, Tara would look at her, blank and empty until Willow would wake up gasping with the cool, unblinking eye burned into her retina.

Someone knocked at the door and startled Willow out of her daymares. Slightly dazed, she cleared her throat and called, "Come in." Giles peeked from behind the door and pulled his glasses off. "Aah, Willow, you're here, excellent. Would you mind terribly if I pulled you away from packing for a few minutes?"

"'Course, Giles," she replied, and let a shirt she'd been folding flop to the floor as she stood.

_Anything to get away from this._

Willow followed him outside and closed the door to the cottage behind her.

Giles walked leisurely with his hands in his pockets, the collared ends unfolding loosely near his elbows. Side by side they strode for a few minutes, enjoying the timid weather afforded to them after some rain the night prior. It was cooler now, and the air felt fresh.

Willow looked up at Giles. His eyebrows were furrowed and his lips tight. Just as she was about to say something, he spoke.

"Willow, I do hope you can forgive me."

_No._

"What? Giles, y-"

"No, Willow. This is my place, my apology. So, please, let me make it."

He paused for a moment.

"I am a Watcher. It is my responsibility to guide and teach the Slayer in her duty to protect the world against the forces of darkness. There were rules and protocol written by the Council many years ago for every possible circumstance. But all of that changed in Sunnydale. Buffy changed it all. You and Xander…" he trailed off.

Her cheeks flushed, unaccustomed and uncomfortable at the apology directed at her. He was Giles, steadfast and wise, right to call her the rank amateur she had been. He shouldn't be asking for the apologies, not after her hands had thrust him into the ceiling and smashing down to the floor. That right was reserved for her.

But her throat was shut, thick like honey with emotion.

"I know now that I Watch more than one. And because I…hesitated, I looked away, I was not Watching. I'm so sorry, Willow.

_Huh._

It had never occurred to her that someone other than her could be blind.

And no, it didn't ease the shame she felt or changed the responsibility she carried, but she could take some comfort in knowing it wasn't just her that sometimes screws up. It wasn't just little Willow Rosenberg who was laden with penitence. And you know? Maybe, just maybe she could give someone the comfort she knew she'd never feel again. She could give the gift of Tara, a small pocket of peace to the closest thing she'd ever come to a father. He deserved it more than he knew.

"It's okay. I forgive you. I'd always forgiven you." It barely came out as a whisper, but she knew he heard. Giles always heard.

That ease in which the slight feel of relief came ruined it all. That taste of forgiveness soured her system and the Blackness lay claim to her once more. Willow didn't even have time to shout before she collapsed, her lip splitting on a rock as her head hit the ground. She didn't hear Giles cry out. She only felt Black.

In the darkness came teeth.


	27. The Phonebooth

**Note 1: The previous chapter and the following take place in Lessons, Episode 1 of Season 7. They're sort of like scenes inbetween what we, the viewers, saw. Think about them logistically and place them chronologically. Any questions, please feel free to ask! **

* * *

Buffy ran.

Not that it was unusual. Nine times out of ten Buffy tended to be engaged in some form of sprinting. It was her Olympic speciality. Well, along with all the monster fighting.

But Buffy was proud that she'd made it nearly an art form- running in every outfit imaginable. Heels? Khakis? Flying necklaces? Fashion didn't deter her from duty. Matter of fact, it spurned her on. It gave her courage and satisfaction knowing at any given moment she could kick demon ass. Superman had it all wrong.

She cringed to think of alternatives. Of carrying a gym bag with her. Or wearing only sweats and loose tops. God forbid. She was the Slayer and could do anything, _did_ do anything, rules be damned. Friends? The Council? Falling in love with vampires? Parents? High School? College, even? Death? What's the big deal if 'fashion' was slapped on too?

She skidded as she rounded a corner, almost tripping on a lost binder lying on the ground.

_Dogs? My dogs are dead? What the hell was I thinking?_ Buffy grimaced, knowing thinking on her feet was not one of her strengths. Oh well, it was too late to worry about that now. Odds are, she'd never see Principal Wood again anyway. Principals never did last long at Sunnydale High.

Speaking of lasting long, Buffy had hoped it'd be at _least_ a day until Dawn used the phone. But no. Leave it to her to get into trouble the first day. In the daytime no less. And during first period.

And so Buffy ran.

Because she was the Slayer-the Sunnydale Batman- and protected the innocent, even if it happened to be her not-so-innocent little sister. And then, it struck her how sad that was; how scarred little Dawnie had become.

Buffy at least had a safe, normal childhood; she hadn't hit Slayerdom until 15. By that age, Dawn had been half-sacrificed, seen her mother die, her surrogate mother die, her sister die(only to come back and nearly fall apart), her family threatened repeatedly, and had been kidnapped more times than Buffy could count.

But wait. No, that wasn't it at all, was it? There was more. Lots more. Dawn was there for Faith- with blind admiration in the beginning and stubborn strength at the end when her and Mom were held in the bedroom after the coma. She was there for the divorce, cried for days and refused to eat grilled cheese sandwiches again because they were Dad's specialty. Dawn was there for Angel, and later, for Angelus. She was there when she broke her leg in the fourth grade after a bad skating accident. It was easy to forget, sometimes, that Buffy had lived her life twice - once with and without a sister.

And to think she'd come so close to losing it. Twice! Buffy frowned and promised herself she wouldn't let it happen again.

And ran faster


	28. Coffee Date

Anya didn't think it was very fair, the way she was being treated.

She was Anyanka, champion of mistreated women, a thousand years of enough torture, punishment, and evisceration experience behind her to frighten any being. And yet, here was Halfrek telling her she was a joke at the office.

A joke? She'd seen hundreds of fledgling demons try and fail to make something of themselves. D'Hoffryn had given her 'employee of the century' eight times in a row. How _dare_ they mock her name. She'd been on top for decades before her little Sunnydale High romp, Cordelia Chase had just gotten lucky. If not for Giles' meddling, Cordelia would have stayed vampire food and Anya would never have lost her powers and gotten into this sopping mess.

A busy waiter weaved between the tables, delivering hot mugs and collecting empty ones. Anya thought about what she could do to that man. Torture him in ways he couldn't imagine. Delivering pieces of himself in tarts and cupcakes to the women he'd wronged.

But Anya merely sighed. She just didn't feel like it, today. That seemed to happen a lot these days.

The measure and test of true friendship rarely appears, but when Anya found herself human and alone in the world, she discovered just how real her friendships were. No well-wishes or condolences on her recent mortality. No fruit baskets, no singing telegrams. Anya was left to scrape together a life out of what little she knew. Did any of her friends or proteges care that Anyanka, champion of mistreated women, lived for weeks in an abandoned gym office in a high school before finding a cheap, dank apartment?

Without her powers to protect her, the trials of living in Sunnydale proved too much for a weak teenager to handle by herself. Anya needed friends. She needed allies. How little she knew at first how different those two were. She'd quickly picked up on the fact that the only thing Sunnydale had going for it resided in the high school library in off-periods and after school. The Scoobies were meek and small and had more odds stacked against them than anything Anya had ever seen. And she had seen a lot. How could she know that only a few stupid, mortal years later she'd feel more at home with them than anywhere else she'd been? How could she know of the steely inner strength Buffy held behind her facade of nail polish and cute shoes? What hope did Anya have of seeing anything more than ancient detachment bred of Watchers toward their Slayers from Giles? The power that dwelt deep within poor, compliant Willow? Or how quickly foolish, useless Xander Harris would rile her bones and quake through her being?

How could she hope?

But now she was here, sitting on a stupid stool in The Espresso Pump, holding a long-ago-cooled cup of a generic coffee drink, stuck. Summer lingered, warm and salty, and made her wish for things to be different. Ha! The vengeance demon, wishing! Irony slapped her in the face once again.

Anya wished, she couldn't help it. She wished she didn't have to go home to her apartment and cook for one. She wished Buffy would look her in the eye and that Dawn didn't always seem so sad. She wished Giles hadn't left and that the Magic Box was still there. She wished Willow would come back and that Tara could be sharing this coffee with her instead of Hallie's empty companionship. She wished she still had a place in the system that continued to turn, blind to the disasters of its quiet heroes.

Instead, she was listening to bad folk music, which assuredly did nothing to improve her mood. Anya frowned, took a sip of her drink, and straightened her back. She knew the uselessness of hope and the foolishness of wishing. Ask any of the women she helped if when they saw their wish granted, they felt better. If it was what they truly wanted. If they could only have him back. If, if, if.

_Enough wishing. It's time to do what we do._

Anya cocked her brow and looked Halfrek in the eye. "Fine. If the Lower Beings want something to talk about, I'll **give** them something to talk about."


	29. The Chase

Tara pulled the towel that rested over her shoulder and ignored the flapping noise it made when it hit the kitchen counter. She wiped her flour-dusted hands carelessly on the sides of her thighs and walked over to the stairs. "Spike?"

After a quiet moment she shouted again, "Spike, are you up?" When silence again greeted her, she started to climb the stairs while a faint worry seeped into her heart. She called ahead, "Spike? I made breakfast," but was cut off by the slamming of the screen door downstairs. Full-out alarm exploded in her ears as she scrambled down the stairs, barely managing to see the last reverberating shutters of the door in the kitchen. She righted herself against the banister, sprinted through the door and turned sharply to see Spike's boots disappear around the corner.

"Oh no you don't," Tara gritted her teeth and gave chase to her increasingly spastic houseguest.

Months of spending time without a nightly demon hunt had left her ill-motivated to exercise. With no Slayer to back up, no beloved to guard, no innocents to protect, there hadn't really been a point. Not to mention the fact that there weren't any demons to hunt anyway. She felt the effects now only a few blocks from Revello Drive, as a cramp pinched painfully at her side. Tara made a small note in the back of her mind to resume exercising as soon as she could catch her breath.

Tara was so bent on forcing her mind to outwit her body that she hadn't realized where he was headed. As his strides became more focused and Spike entered a dilapidated building, Tara wondered just how much longer she could hope to chase a being that doesn't need oxygen.

She didn't think she could run much longer when she saw Spike trot to a dazed halt in the middle of a burnt out hallway. Finally. She balanced her arms on her knees, too exhausted to stand straight. Her chest heaved when it smacked her in the face.

High school. He'd led her to the high school. It's dark, broken corridors and corroded walls echoed the giant gap of time it'd been since she was last here. A small twitch of her eye and she could almost see the not-so-tiny Tinkerbell light in the distance. Before she could sink into a delicious, painfully memory, Spike's possessed footsteps pulled her in the opposite direction, down a janitorial stairway and into the dark.

"Spike!" she shouted while she scrambled over fallen beams. Tara slipped suddenly, grunted as she hit the floor and watched a burnt yearbook page fly out from under her. A long-dead bright-eyed and bushy-tailed girl floated past her face. _Most Likely to Succeed. _

_What the hell is the matter with him? _

Tara knew Spike, deeper than she expected to. It started in the milky beginnings of her and Willow's relationship, though she didn't know it then, while sitting on the cool porcelain of Giles' toilet seat making awkward small talk with Anya. She understood when she saw the bruises dance on his face after Glory, in the ways he'd avert his eyes for days. She saw, out of the corner of her eye, the hours he'd spend leaning on the tree in the front yard, cradling a forgotten cigarette between his fingers.

It came to her slowly, in moments and crises, just how similar she and Spike were.

Both runaways trying to escape what they were, inadvertently falling into this ragtag team of Scoobydom and becoming something entirely unexpected and different. Something _more_. She understood, later on, how deep that path took them-when sacrifice, love, and loyalty become truths instead of sidenotes. Sure, they may have taken different routes, but ultimately they'd become the same. Tara knew. And she held onto it just in case Spike ever tried to forget or pretend otherwise. He was more than that; _she_ was more than that.

All of a sudden, he stopped. Frozen dead in his tracks, Spike suddenly seemed to realize where he was. He turned and squinted at Tara through the dusty light that filtered through foggy basement windows.

"Spike?"

They stared at each other for a moment, searching, but then Spike turned and faced a gaping hole in the wall where a door once stood. He laughed crazily for a moment, but his features soon softened and his eyes smiled tenderly at something Tara could not see. He raised his arm and gently spoke.

"Buffy…duck.


	30. The Teeth

This time, the terrible darkness spoke. It yelled, howled and dragged Willow from the grass and dew, far past the roots and into the deep.

It seemed like forever. But then came wind. And noise. And teeth. From the inky darkness, sharp and wet, the teeth glistened for her. "We're coming for you," they hissed. Willow cowered and covered her ears as a midnight storm blew around her. She fell to her knees while her hair whipped around her hands and face. But still the tempest raged, snarled, snapped, and roared. "We know her eyes are watching you, little Willow."

Willow choked. The deep-seated fear that always lingered grasped her mercilessly. The tears could come now, hot and firey in this cold, cold place. They knew. They always knew. Her sins. Her darkness. It would never be over. Not while Tara's dead face watched her from beyond. Willow knew no spell or weapon could defeat these demons. No matter how much magic therapy the Coven could teach her, there was nothing that could be done to save Willow from this fate. Of teeth and thrashing. It was what she deserved. Even Tara knew; even Tara saw.

"Did you think it would be that easy, a hug and some tears?" The sound was booming and everywhere. "Thing again, young one, because we're here. We're always here and soon, we'll be all that's left."

The din and wind coalesced in a massive cyclone that swept Willow off her feet and into it's bowels. Powerless in it's wake, Willow drowned. And drowned and drowned and drowned. She drowned in hopelessness. In fear. In worry. In nausea, and a sick knowing that was meant to be. She let herself go to darkness- why should it not come claim her now?

In the storm, Willow succumbed, sunk into herself and thought of blue. While the teeth were grinding, Willow recalled the way Tara used to sigh into her pillow in the mornings.

_The grinding stopped._

And how she used to close her eyes when she heard a birdsong.

_The itching ceased._

The warm way she'd hug the laundry when it came out of the dryer.

_The wind caressed._

Her face after a shower.

_The dark turned grey._

The color of her lips.

_The sound stopped._

Willow let herself think of red.

And then,

she woke.

"Oh, god."

But this time it was no slow, soft awakening. Willow jolted violently, electrocuted by the earth, and gasped desperately as if having nearly drowned.

Strong arms were cradling her. "Just breathe," she heard. _Tara?_

Inevitable disappointment seeped into her heart as Willow slowly realized no, Tara would never hold her again. _Giles._ "What happened," she managed to gasp.

"What do you remember?"

_Sweet forgiveness before the black._ "We were talking, and I felt-" she recoiled from the ground and met his gaze with frightened eyes. "-I felt the earth, Giles. It's all connected." _But none of it back to Tara. Just the evil to me._ "It is, but it's not all good and pure and rootsy. There's deep, deep black." _The teeth._ "There's...I saw, I saw the Earth, Giles. I saw its teeth."

Willow felt rather than heard the certainty in his voice. "The Hell Mouth."

_It's coming._ "It's gonna open. It's going to swallow us all."


	31. Okay

It was astounding what time could do to scoured hearts. Contrary to popular thought, it did not heal all wounds. It didn't create a salve after months of searing pain, and it certainly did not prepare Buffy for what was on the other side of that door. Nothing could prepare her for the sight of such a haunted and dirty Spike. She'd never seem him that lost.

"Spike? Are you real?"

His wild laughter echoed in the dark basement and her face twisted. It was all too surreal.

There had been other basements, once. In falling houses. In secret and in shame. In desperation and in need. That urgency to _feel_, something, _any_thing. Even if it was as dead as she still felt - how she used to be.

Buffy wondered where he'd been, how he got here, why his hair looked so different, and what were those cuts on his chest? His eyes were tender. She was concerned and lifted her hand to touch his cheek. But then the memories came.

She remembered how long she stood outside the bathroom looking in, wondering how long it would take her to get used to sitting on the slick and cool porcelain without feeling ill. It took her a few weeks, after everything, to not panic if her back was turned to an open room.

Buffy blinked.

_Berries. _

_She was washing berries and slicing fruit in front of the sink when a clammy wave passed over her. Everything slowed down. She watched water droplets spill down the edge of a strawberry that wobbled on the countertop. Slayer instincts forced her blood to pump faster and made her heartbeat pound in her ears. - Threat, there was a threat. - The pregnant belly of a blueberry rounded in Buffy's vision when the fine hairs on the back of her neck sprung up in attention. Buffy swiveled and snapped to her right. Threat - there was a threat._

_She heard a muted clatter. A bowl dropped. "Buffy?" _

_Dawn stood in the doorway, her arm frozen and her face a mask of alarm. "Buffy?"_

_Buffy watched inside as from a veil, horrified at the sight of her sister so frightened. The pounding in her head made her hearing fuzzy and Dawn's words were so far away. Buffy looked down and was surprised to see the knife locked tight in her grip. It's smooth and heavy handle was the only thing she could feel and it grounded her to the kitchen. She looked back at Dawn, who was fixated on the fruit-laden countertop, and followed the line of sight. Blood. There was blood. Buffy looked at her other hand. It was then that she noticed the red on the blade. She didn't even feel the cut. _

_She didn't feel anything except Dawn's arms as she surround her. Buffy closed her eyes and sank into the hug. That was the beginning of okay. _

She'd had enough to worry about that summer without thinking of him. Plumbing in the basement, arrangements with the funeral parlour, Dawn catching up in school(constant apocali always happened during finals for some endlessly odd reason), phone calls to Giles, double shifts at the Doublemeat, and meetings with the social worker among other things. Turns out real life took up lots of real time and left none to Spike.

...who was suddenly standing before her. Disheveled. In the basement of the new high school.

_Breath. Deep breath. Reel it in, Summers. Dawn is on the line._ Stranger things had happened in Sunnydale, she supposed.

"Buffy, duck." Except maybe hearing him say that.

"Duck? There's a duck?"

And then, as happens every so often in her line of work, there was black


	32. Dianna

A large pile of bricks had taken up residence on Tara's chest. The pressure of Spike's words were immense and sudden. They stole her breath and stabbed her heart.

_Buffy? _

His hand dropped to his side and eyes that had been so tender and full, looked away and caved in with fear and confusion. He turned away, and raised his arm to his head, and paced backwards.

Tara pushed past the shock that threatened to topple her. There wasn't time for that right now. This was time for blind Scoobying.

As she rushed forward to stand before him, a calm came forth and settled like a balm._ You can to do this. You're an Amazon, remember?_ "Spike. What do you mean? You said Buffy. Is she here? Do you see her?"

Spike continued pacing. Nothing in his demeanor suggested he'd even heard Tara's questions. Instead, he muttered to himself while the leather coat billowed behind him as his steps became more forceful. He was like a frightened animal and pawed away from her questions and cringed.

Her heartbeat thundered furiously in her ears, but Tara managed to focus on Spike's words. After all, they had brought her here. Who knows where they could take her._ You __have __to do this._

"No visitors today, terribly busy."

All Tara knows is that she has to keep him talking. Keep him going. The last thing she can stand is silence again. But trying to guide him through whatever is happening seems impossible as half of what he says in nonsense.

"Nobody comes in here, it's just the three of us."

Despite everything, her voice is level and strong, _like an Amazon._ "Is Buffy here, Spike? What is she doing? Can you talk to her? Is she hurt? Can you tell her I'm here? Can you tell her where I am?"

He finally snaps, "Don't you think I'm trying! I'm not fast, not a quick study. This is kind of new territory for me. Slayer's going on and on about some bloody zombies who keep yelling at her and attacking and what the hell is she doing here? Christ, what the hell am_ I _doing here?"

Tara's mind whirled. "Zombies? No, Spike, zombies don't speak. They must be manifest spirits raised to seek vengeance. Tell her there m-might be a talisman or something."

"Not ghosts," he says. The events of the past several hours coalesce under Spike's shoes and tongue as Tara watched his crazy antics. _That's __**it.**_ Tara gritted her teeth. _I need him, even if he can't do it himself._ "Spike! Tell her-" she grabbed his coat and forced him to look at her. "This is important, goddamn it. I don't know what's going on, but I need you to tell her what I said. Ok?"

The steely blue of Spike's eyes bore into Tara's and in an instant she knew the Poet. She knew the man behind the yellow eyes. And somehow, just for a second, she knew everything could be okay


End file.
